


Sleeping Somewhere Cold

by sleepfight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Androids as a product and service, Angst, Dehumanization, Endgame Markus/Simon but it's gonna be a while, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, Objectification, Origin Story, Simon-centric, Unreliable Narrator, android gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepfight/pseuds/sleepfight
Summary: Simon has lived a thousand lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**_PL600 Unit 501 743 923 is first activated on May 03, 2035._ **

 

Its optics blink, calibrating instantly. A human child is grasping both of its hands, pulling it to step out of the shipping crate into the warm light of a large living room. She bounces on her toes as PL600 takes a moment to observe her smiling face, integration protocols already processing and logging her profile attributes-- _seven years old, dairy sensitivity, only child--_ while secondary personality receptors come online, standing by to adapt as more data is gathered through the routine initialization sequence. Surface level scans reveal a slightly elevated heart rate-- _excitement--_ as well as trace amounts of non-toxic blue ink-- _Crayola, starting to dry out, add art supplies to shopping list--_ across each of her ten fingers, still swinging PL600’s hands in hers, looking up at it with open-faced curiosity. 

PL600 tilts its head and smiles down at her, a fond expression forming automatically as child care subroutines lock in place, re-prioritizing its personality traits after accounting for her age to ensure it presents as adequately nonthreatening. Imprint protocols begin to run, barely perceptible in the stream of its processing, and compels PL600 to squeeze her hands back.

“Hello,” it says, bowing slightly. Data inquiries flow rapidly from the imprint manager, eager to compile new information. “What is your name?”

The girl squeals, delighted by its reaction. “I’m Jessica!”

 

**_> >Primary imprint finalizing...90%_ **

 

“I’m very happy to meet you, Jessica,” it replies.

She lets go of its hands and spins around, clapping and jumping from one foot to the other. “Dad, he can talk, he knows my name!” She jogs across the carpet and throws her arms around the waist of an older man with a stocky build and kind face-- _registered customer: Paul Evers, 38, professor of art history at The University of Detroit--_ who returns her hug, seemingly just as enthusiastic as she is.

Beside him on the sofa, PL600 identifies a woman-- _error: no customer data loaded--_ sitting on the edge of the armrest, flipping through the instruction manual and nodding her head thoughtfully. Across from her, a man in a smart gray suit and a CyberLife name tag-- _Christopher Lyons, 23, personal sales manager--_ is pulling a touch-screen tablet from his briefcase.

“As you can see,” Christopher says as he approaches PL600, clapping it on the back with one hand and gesturing toward Jessica with the other, chuckling. “Kids love them. The PL series is specially engineered to integrate with children from the moment it’s booted up and each one comes equipped with adaptive personality technology to guarantee it will always be the right fit for your unique family.” He nudges PL600 with his elbow. “Isn’t that right, PL600?”

PL600 immediately interprets the initialization command for what it is and steps forward with its hands clasped in front of its body, presenting the floor-model standard posture as it begins to recite its welcome text.

“That is correct,” it answers serenely. “I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600 home assistant android. I am programmed with a variety of housekeeping functions such as cooking, lawn care, and home maintenance and come installed with an executive suite of primary functions that can be modified and altered to your liking. I can manage your finances, your shopping, and can provide independent care and entertainment to children in the family.” It turns its attention back to Jessica who is still clinging to her father’s leg and watching it intently. “My name is Simon. I’m very happy to be working for you.”

Paul hums and nudges the woman on the couch. “Pretty impressive, huh, babe?”

“And there’s even more to see than that,” Christopher continues. “The SIMON edition was specifically designed with a variety of additional, upgradeable features so that customers can experience the full range of services offered by CyberLife’s line of home assistants.” He points to the woman on the sofa and the booklet she is holding. “The welcome packet there explains how to activate the extra features as you need them but it comes loaded with the standard PL600 profile which most families find more than sufficient.”

Jessica stands on her toes, tugging her fathers shirt to whisper in his ear. He smiles and ruffles her hair at her question. “She wants to know if we can give it a name?” 

“Of course!” Christopher goes back to his tablet and fiddles with something on the screen. “The SIMON model will respond to its designation for ease of use at activation but a secondary command prompt can be programmed at any time.” 

He presses a button on his tablet and PL600 senses a new receptor come online within its profile matrix. It turns from Christopher back to the family, hands still patiently clasped, and waits for additional instruction. 

“PL600, register your name,” Christopher directs it and then nods at Jessica. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” 

PL600 turns its mild gaze to the young girl and projects a friendly expression when she hesitates. Jessica looks apprehensive all of a sudden-- _profile trait logged: shy when center of attention--_ and Paul has to usher her forward. 

“Go ahead, honey” he encourages her. “You can call it whatever you want.”

Jessica stares up at PL600 with wide brown eyes. It waits quietly, the LED at its temple spinning yellow as it anticipates data entry.

“Simon,” she says after a moment of serious contemplation. “I like him how he is.” This earns a fond laugh from the woman on the couch.

Simon’s LED blinks and it logs the designation. “My name is Simon,” it repeats. “Thank you, Jessica, I think that name is a perfect choice.” It stoops down to her level and holds out a palm which she instantly surges out to high-five in an excited fit of giggles. “I hope that we’re going to be great friends.”

“We will!” Jessica exclaims and runs toward the hall on the other side of the living room. “I’m gonna go get my favorite toys to show you, Simon, I’ll be right back!”

Paul laughs to himself, watching Jessica disappear into her room, and takes a seat next to the woman on the sofa, brushing the backs of his fingers down her arm. “See, Gloria, what did I tell you?” He teases, not unkindly. “No fear whatsoever. I don’t know why we’re even bothering with this when it’s obvious Jessica is going to do just fine with an android around.”

The woman-- _new profile registered: Gloria--_ blows a sigh out of her nose and turns her attention to Christopher who has started drawing up forms on his tablet. She twists a strand of long, sandy hair around her finger and looks back down at the instruction packet she is still holding. 

“I’ll admit that went better than I thought it would,” she says after a beat of uncomfortable silence. Simon registers the slight turn of tone in her voice. It can recognize that she is wary-- _personality trait logged: uncomfortable around androids, elevating personality subroutine 672b-02 to priority 02--_ and steps to the side, just enough to ensure she has clear sightlines of it at all times. Gloria looks at it long and hard for a moment. 

“Fine,” she sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes when Paul wraps an arm around her shoulders to pull her in for a sloppy kiss at her temple, obviously having anticipated this reaction (and eventual concession) from her. “We’ll try this. For now.” 

“Wonderful!” Christopher says. He presses a finger down on his tablet and Simon automatically accepts the new data uplink to its core database storage, opening an empty vessel in its mind. Christopher then hands the tablet to Paul just as Jessica tears back into the living room with an armful of stuffed animals and coloring books, collapsing at Simon’s feet and sorting her toys out on the floor.

Simon overhears Christopher saying something about credit card numbers and filling out entry paperwork but tunes it out in favor of settling neatly on the floor with Jessica, crossing its legs so that it can lean forward and examine the selection of items she has chosen to show him. Children are honest and telling in their behaviors and it knows that it will be able to glean valuable information about her from the things she has singled out. She’s laid out a mesh bag full of plastic animal figures-- _dirty, grass stains, well-loved--_ alongside a clear plastic case, covered with cartoon dinosaur stickers and filled with crafting supplies-- _plastic lanyards, perler beads, glue gun._ Two coloring books with illustrations of wild cats-- _tiger on visible cover has crudely drawn mustache and top hat--_ and an android frog toy, powered down and motionless on the floor.

 

**_> >Alpha profile: Jessica [Updated 05.03.2035, 14:22:07]_ **

**_Seven years old, only child, dairy sensitivity_ **

**_Sometimes shy [Elevating personality subroutine 721d-14 to priority 01]_ **

**_> >Seeks tactile attention_ **

**_[Determine boundaries - high priority]_ **

**_Creative hobbies_ **

**_Likes animals and the outdoors_ **

**_Sense of humor [Decreasing personality subroutine 021a-01 to priority 04]_ **

 

Simon feels its personality subroutines shifting again, new information compelling new priorities within its profile matrix. Jessica is going through each item and explaining what they are and what she does with them, handing the toys to Simon as she goes while it listens with rapt attention, gently taking them in hand and committing them to its memory. After it has seen the last toy, she pauses and eyes Simon, a shadow of her earlier shyness returning. A need to comfort seeds in Simon’s mind and it reaches for the coloring book with the tiger on the cover, determined to put her at ease.

“I like this one the best,” it says and taps a finger on the top hat she’s drawn on the tiger’s head. “I’ve never been very good at coloring in the lines, though, so you’ll have to teach me how to be an artist like you.”

There is some truth to that statement, it has no record of ever coloring with markers, uncertain of having been good or not good at anything; Simon’s memory banks are a static void prior to activating in the living room. It doesn’t know if it is programmed to color outside the lines but experiences a powerful urge to find out when a smile breaks Jessica’s expression, hesitation forgotten, and she promises that she will demonstrate how to do it .

 

**_> >Task logged: Learn how to color from Jessica_ **

 

She pulls one more toy from where it’s been hidden behind her and holds it out for the PL600 to take. “I like the coloring books too, but they aren’t my favorite, this one is my favorite.”

Simon holds the stuffed animal and runs its fingers through the matted fibers of the toy’s brown fur, worn thin and flat from years of cuddles and tight hugs. It’s clearly older than the rest of the toys she’s shared, that much is clear by its worn appearance, but beyond the matted fur and the stained, blue shirt it wears, the way she so carefully lays it down in Simon’s hands is what gives away how priceless this item is to her. Its internal database identifies that the stuffed animal is a piece of vintage merchandise, a cartoon character from decades past, manufactured well before Jessica was born. While Simon catalogs and tags the toy-- _comfort item,_ _do not misplace, ask before washing--_ she twists her small hands up in the front of her shirt, an anxious behavior Simon picks up on as soon as it starts.

“My real mom gave him to me a long time ago,” she says quietly and Simon nods, absorbing the knowledge that Gloria is not her biological mother, but says nothing when Jessica doesn’t look up from her hands. It does not want to pressure her to share more than she is ready to offer.

“I love him a whole lot,” she says finally. “You can play with him too, if you want. Since we’re friends.” 

It’s nothing but an innocent request for play time, it understands that logically, but something seeps into Simon’s chest as it processes the implication of her words. Something that manifests as warm, familiar and a little heavy, something Simon tries to grasp and hold onto even as a surge of programming rushes to smother it.

_“This one is my favorite.”_

Jessica is offering to share a treasured possession, her _favorite_ possession, one that is important to her. Like she’s trusting Simon with something precious.

Simon is her friend. She wants Simon to be important too. 

It clutches the stuffed animal to its chest and reaches a gentle hand out to grasp her shoulder. “I’m honored,” it says earnestly. It registers a distant ringing in its ears but ignores the prompts that appear, commanding it to run a diagnostic, too preoccupied by the significance of the moment. It starts to say something else, something suitably reassuring, but the link with Christopher’s tablet suddenly flares and a stream of encrypted data is downloaded into its primary memory banks, abruptly forcing Simon back to its feet. Several contract files along with a string of EMV verifications lock into place in its mind, followed by full profile data for Jessica, Paul, and Gloria. It loads all at once, setting forth a rapid cascade of updates to its personality subroutines as the new information is evaluated, tested, and refiled as a series of tasks and priorities, wants and needs for each member of the family.

 

**_> >Primary imprint sequence complete...100%_ **

**_> >>Profile download complete...100%_ **

**_> >>>Calendar integration complete...100%_ **

 

**_Primary Function Protocols Set: Take Care Of Evers Family [335:59:20]_ **

 

Simon feels the stuffed animal drop from its hands as the calendar function, now filled, propels him at once to the kitchen to begin cooking dinner as it is scheduled to do at this time. Jessica makes a small, hurt sound and darts forward to scoop up the discarded toy but is calmed by Paul patting her head and reassuring her that she can play with the new android after dinner, after it has finished its chores.

Entering the kitchen, Simon finds Gloria seeing Christopher to the door and fetches the man’s coat from the entryway rack without being prompted, holding it open for him as he wraps up his conversation with Gloria. Christopher slips into the offered coat but otherwise ignores Simon, simply reaching into one of the pockets to procure a business card to leave her with.

“Enjoy your time off, Miss Evers, you’re going to see that this is a great investment for you and your family,” he says and shakes her hand firmly. “I’ll give you a call in two weeks to check in and we’ll go from there if you’re satisfied with its performance, sound good?” 

Gloria nods. “Sounds good, thank you for your time.” 

Simon opens the door for him and inclines its head as Christopher passes through. Once he’s made it to his car, it shuts and locks the entryway and turns back to Gloria who stares at it, arms crossed in front of herself, still projecting body language that suggests she is disquieted by its presence. It bows slightly, arranging its features into a neutral expression, an attempt to show that it is harmless. 

“I’ll have dinner ready shortly, Miss Evers,” it says. 

Gloria shivers and moves to let it walk by her. “Ugh, that’s so creepy, why on Earth am I allowing this?” She shakes her head a few times, scrubbing a palm down her face. “This better be good. _You_ better be good.” 

Simon nods.

“Yes, Miss Evers.”

 

* * *

 

Integrating into the Evers household is not a difficult task by any means. Paul puts Simon to work in the yard the next morning and leaves a long list of projects for the rest of the week but he still allows time on its schedule to spend with Jessica. He’s amused by its affectionate way with her and it often observes him watching them interact. He seems visibly pleased that his daughter has a new playmate. Jessica is on summer break from her classes and spends the late evenings in the yard with Simon, after it has completed its daily tasks, playing board games or Lego until the sun sets and Simon has to ply her back inside with promises of story time. Even Gloria, who remained off-put by Simon for days after its activation, eventually trusts a variety of tasks to their new caretaker and becomes less afraid to assign duties to it as it as time progresses.

Paul is teaching a summer course at the university twice a week but is otherwise home most mornings and spends the afternoons maintaining several hobbies, like painting model cars, which rarely requires assistance from Simon. He likes to chat if they are working in the same room, absently telling stories about himself and his family while his mind is focused on his crafting. Simon learns a lot about him on the days where this occurs-- _from Indiana, moved to Michigan for love, a love who is not Gloria, is unhappy at his job._ He is an open book and Simon expands on Paul’s profile quickly and naturally, invested in the anecdotes he shares, filled with a genuine want to know more. Gloria is harder to get a read on. Through the profile integration, Simon learns that Gloria is Paul’s second wife and Jessica’s step-mother, a novelist by profession who became a part of their family when Jessica was still a baby. By experience, Simon also learns that she does a majority of her writing in the middle of the night and prefers her coffee with cream, which ensures it has a purpose to fulfill at all hours of the day, even if Gloria did not want seem to want its help the first few times Simon appeared at her office door with a warm mug.

Most of the free time Simon has is spent with Jessica and it finds that these are the tasks it takes the most satisfaction in. She is a curious girl and sheds her shyness around Simon quickly, soon wanting to know everything about it and the other androids she has seen. She asks Simon questions about how it perceives the world and follows it around the house like a shadow while it dutifully goes about its tasks, answering her queries to the best of its abilities. Sometimes she asks it easy ones _(“My teacher said that dogs are colorblind, Simon, can androids see colors?”)_ but other times, she has questions that make it pause, something in Simon’s programming skipping like a needle on a record when it considers it for too long.

_Once, she asks “Why don’t your other friends ever come visit?”_

_“You are my friends,” Simon answers her honestly._

Nonetheless, it is comfortable and Simon is grateful for its newfound companions. It performs scheduled tasks during the day, keeping their large, suburban home tidy and completing errands with the assistance of the family’s automated car. It serves home-cooked meals three times a day, keeps Gloria caffeinated at night, and entertains Jessica whenever there is time to do so. Its easy for Simon to settle into a content routine. 

One afternoon, while Simon gathers everyone’s plates off the table from dinner, Paul’s cell rings and he excuses himself to the kitchen before he answers. Jessica has her nose buried in a comic book, absorbed, and doesn’t seem to notice him go, but Gloria, fresh from a nap on the couch, follows his retreating form with her eyes. She looks worried. Simon is programmed to react to her sudden apprehension but does not want to worry Jessica by asking about it. Instead, Simon tops off Gloria’s coffee and takes her empty plate from her.

“Thank you, Simon,” she says absently.

“You’re welcome, Gloria.”

Gloria had warmed up to Simon in recent days, allowing it to refer to her as Gloria instead of Miss Evers now, and it sends a barely perceptible thrill of _something_ through Simon’s being whenever it has the privilege to speak to her so casually. It satisfies a programmed need to integrate with the family, to be… included, so to speak. Gaining Gloria’s trust had been the final task required to finalize Simon’s personality matrix, ceasing the slow shuffle of character tweaks as its programming found the precise prioritization of subroutines to please everyone. Receiving the first report that Simon had fulfilled its primary function had been immensely gratifying.

 

**_> >Take Care Of Evers Family [23:08:41]_ **

 

Smiling to itself, Simon carries the dirty dishes and what’s left of lunch into the kitchen. Paul is still on the phone but grins at Simon when it enters, a sign it is not intruding. Simon places the dishes into the sink and begins packing the leftovers into plastic containers, making a note on its shopping list that they are running low on cling-wrap.

“Yeah, the wife’s even on board now, it’s been great having it around,” Paul is saying into the phone. He leans against the counter, a hand in his pocket, not hiding the fact that he is watching Simon put everything away. “Jessica loves it, you really weren’t kidding about kids getting attached to these things.”

The warm sensation that has been nesting in Simon’s core for the last two weeks glows at the praise. It is pleasing to be acknowledged for performing well.

Whoever is on the other line says something that makes Paul laugh. “Yeah, it’s a relief we can keep the same face on it, that’ll make everything a lot easier. We can keep the name too, right?”

Placing the leftovers in the fridge, Simon sees that they are also low on milk-- _almond, dairy sensitivity--_ and adds that to the shopping list as well. There is normally a date attached to each list so that it can be synced with Simon’s weekly schedule but this one is strangely blank. Simon sends a reminder to Paul’s tablet and leaves it at that.

As Simon finishes the dishes and exits the kitchen, Paul claps its shoulder affectionately and says into the phone “Yeah, the porch will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Jessica helps Simon make breakfast for the family before Gloria goes to bed, having spent the night awake at her computer, and after finishing her meal, asks her father if Simon can skip clearing the dishes to come play early. Paul indulges her and lets Simon off the hook so that it can join her on the floor of the living room where she has spread out her collection of art supplies. Simon smiles when she pushes one of the coloring books into its hands, recognizing the tiger on the cover from the day it was activated.

“Are you going to teach me how to color?” Simon asks her and she cheers affirmatively, glad that her promise has been remembered, glad that Simon remembers _everything._

She picks all the colors out and points to the parts of the page she wants colored in. Both of them are amused to find that Simon is actually quite good at coloring within the lines, never once straying over the black boundaries of each illustration, even when she says it would look better messy. She takes her duty as an instructor seriously and before Simon realizes it, hours have passed and a scheduling alert is flashing that dinner is due to be served in an hour. It stands up and excuses itself to the kitchen after thanking Jessica for an excellent lesson. She promises to hang the picture on the fridge once she’s put finishing touches on the hot pink zebra they’ve concocted.

 

**_> >Task completed: Learn how to color from Jessica_ **

 

In the dining room, Paul catches Simon by elbow. “All done coloring?” He asks, eyes twinkling with mirth when Simon holds up its hands to show him the mess of marker streaks that litter them.

“It was very educational,” Simon replies. “I can only hope to live up to her impeccable standards.”

Paul laughs and pats the small of Simon’s back, taking a step forward to steer them into the kitchen and toward the front door. “I’m sure you did a great job, Simon,” he chuckles. He stops in the entryway. “Hey, do me a favor, will you? Go grab the mail, I’m gonna go check on Jessica.” 

Simon nods and reaches for the doorknob once Paul is out of sight. Outside, the midday weather registers as balmy and as it hurries down the stairs to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, Simon can understand why Paul didn’t want to come out here himself. Humidity at these levels tends to make humans uncomfortable. Simon logs a task on its calendar to check all the A/C filters in the house to make sure the family stays cool for the rest of the summer.

Paul is waiting on the porch which surprises Simon. He takes the envelopes when they are handed to him and gives Simon a little salute. “Thanks, pal,” he says.

_“You’re welcome, Paul,”_ is what it tries to say. 

“Your trial period has expired,” is what it does say. “Please contact your CyberLife sales representative.”

Paul taps Simon’s chest with a rolled up magazine. “Wait there, he says and goes back inside, freezing Simon in place with his instructions. Simon scowls. Its central processing has not stopped, not completely, but has slowed to the point that access to all higher functions has been cut off, muffled behind a wall of programming, leaving only autonomous subroutines online. Simon can remain standing and maintain base-level environmental scans, but otherwise is separated from thinking and reasoning. It’s disconcerting to be so suddenly bereft of its senses, silence radiating from within, which is why Simon startles when an alert coasts across its mind.

 

**_> >Task completed: Take Care Of Evers Family [00:00:00]_** ** _  
_** **_> >CONTACT CYBERLIFE_**

 

Several minutes later, a CyberLife truck backs into the driveway and Paul returns to the porch. Christopher, the salesman from Simon’s activation day, hops out of the cab along with a TR400 dressed in a labor uniform. They greet each other, apparently unconcerned by Simon’s confusion, and Christopher produces a tablet from his bag, taking Paul to the side to show him something on the screen. The TR400 walks around the truck with a dolly in hand. It opens the swinging doors to the back of the truck and lets the metal drop-ramp slip down so that it can walk up into the vehicle. When it reemerges, it has a tall, verticle CyberLife crate loaded on the dolly.

Simon watches, still overcome by the sensation of being detached from its directives, as the box is set at the bottom of the ramp. Paul has finished with the tablet and handed it back to Christopher to put away, now shooing the TR400 away so that he can grasp the metal clamps on one side of the crate, releasing the hinges to swing open.

Inside the box, inlaid within a casing of gray foam, an AP700 stares vacantly back at Simon. The android possesses identical facial features as Simon, the PL600’s mild model still a popular choice among service class units, and it appears to be in standby, LED circling a steady blue. Despite its designation, it wears the standard black and white PL600 uniform. 

Christopher moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Simon. “Mr. Evers, I think you’ll find this model perfectly suited to your needs. It can perform everything you’ve seen in the last two weeks to an even higher standard and comes equipped with all the upgrades we discussed on the phone. Let me just get this all set up for you and you’ll be ready to see your new android in action.”

_New android._  

Simon blinks, finally understanding the situation, and turns its head between Christopher and Paul. “Has my performance been unsatisfactory?” It asks. “Have I done something wrong?”

Christopher ignores the question. “PL600, initialize customer profile migration,” he says.

Simon’s limbs begin receiving data again but all it can do is step forward, holographic dermis melting down its forearm when it reaches out to automatically grasp the AP700’s hand. A soft blue light emits from where they are connected and Simon feels fragments of data tearing out of its memory banks; Gloria’s profile, meticulously curated over many patient days, disappears in an instant. The sudden loss of data leaves behind a yawning chasm in its programming that only expands as more and more information is removed and transmitted to the AP700.

_“Simon,”_ whispers through the data stream before disappearing. _“I like him how he is.”_

The AP700 blinks, LED circling once, then turns to Paul, smiling. 

“Data transfer complete,” it says. “Greetings, Paul. Would you like to give me a name?” 

Paul nods, apparently satisfied. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ll keep calling you Simon.”

“Affirmative. My name is Simon.”

“And there you have it!” Christopher exclaims. “Everything the PL600 learned about you in the last two weeks has been transferred over to your new model, including any previously scheduled tasks. There’s no interruption of service and little Jessica won’t even notice the difference.”

Paul reaches out to shake Christophers hand and thanks him again. “I’m glad these things are so customizable. I can’t even imagine the waterworks we’d have had if she knew we swapped out the test model for the real thing.” Paul nods to the AP700. “Jessica is waiting for you inside, go say hello to her and then get started in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Paul,” it says and vanishes into the foyer.

As Paul and Christopher continue to talk, finalizing paperwork and signing off on warranties, the TR400 takes Simon by the arm and guides it to the now empty crate left behind by the AP700, gently prodding it to step inside. The foam is a perfect fit, the AP700’s physical features identical to the PL600 down to the millimeter, but a lingering discomfort remains, even as it settles itself inside the box. It has only empty slots logged on its calendar now but the sky is getting dark which means it’s time to prepare dinner for… for....

It knows that _someone_ is waiting for it to finish its tasks, is expecting it, but it cannot remember who.

The front door slams shut and Simon’s vision is suddenly blocked by Christopher who comes to stand in front of the box, still tapping away at his tablet. “PL600 have you sustained any internal damage?” He asks without looking up.

“No,” Simon answers.  

“Great, one less form to fill out this time.” The tablet is powered down and shoved back into Christopher’s bag. Christopher sighs loudly through his nose. “Well, let’s get this over with, I’m ready to be done for the day. Larry?”

The TR400 comes around again with its equipment, clearly preparing to load the box back into the back of the truck.

“Have I done something wrong?” PL600 repeats its earlier question.

“Ugh,” Christopher groans. “Why do I always get the ones that talk?” He slams the crate shut, encasing Simon in darkness, and calls for Larry, the TR400, to bring the dolly. Almost as an afterthought, he calls out “PL600, initialize return mode and standby.”

  
As the box rattles up the ramp, Simon sleeps.

 

* * *

 

  
“PL600, bring yourself back online.” 

Its optics blink, calibrating instantly. An adult male is grabbing it by the wrist, impatiently pulling it to step out of the shipping crate into the cold light of a large examination room. He taps his foot, waiting, as Simon takes a moment to observe its environment, trying to scan its surroundings but finding that functionality disabled. There are two people present, both human men, both dressed in matching scrubs and rubber aprons. The man furthest from Simon is standing at a computer console behind a wall of transparent glass, engrossed by something on the screen, while the other leads Simon to a platform in the center of the room. A thick cable hangs from the ceiling above, connected back to the computer terminal, as well as several shining, mechanical armatures, the CyberLife logo just visible on their outer casing.

When Simon settles on the platform, magnets engage in its feet, locking it in place.

As it slowly turns its head, taking in the environment manually, it hears ringing in its ears again. Something about this place is familiar, but it cannot place why; there is only static coming through its data stream, higher functions still just barely out of reach. The walls are a stark mix of chrome and white paint, sterile, and the room is silent but for the humming of the console and the long string of complaints being vocalized by the man working at it. 

“Good god, the boys in sales really need to get their shit together,” he is grumbling. “Why even bother with making it collect consumer metrics if it takes this long to dump the data when they give it back? We could have been almost done by now if this thing wasn’t so goddamn slow.” 

The other man shrugs. He unzips Simon’s uniform and slides the shirt off of its shoulders, balling it up and throwing it across the room where a large pile of other uniforms sit in a heap, all from different models of androids. “You know how it is, Mitch,” he says. “They’re trying to get the most life out of these models while they still can. They’re already taking the standard PL600s out of retail circulation so it makes sense that there are so many of them in the rotation now.”

The other man, Mitch, rolls his eyes. “I know that, idiot, I’m not talking about standard PLs. The SIMON units were _only_ ever made _for_ the program. You’d think they would have, I dunno, considered the long-term effects of repeated scrubs, especially on wetware running shit it was never designed for. It’s a solid ten minute transfer with these busted-ass models.” Mitch finally looks up from his terminal and gestures angrily at PL600 where it stands rooted to the ground, idle. “Can’t you hurry it up?”

It’s a rhetorical question but Simon experiences a twinge of discomfort at the man’s words nonetheless and overrides an unexpected compulsion to cross its arms defensively. It does not understand what is taking place around it and without access to higher reasoning functions, it cannot adapt to improve its performance. It is designed to seek feedback through praise and chastising but without context, the critique is meaningless, hurtful for the sake of being hurtful.

_ <Hurtful?> _

“I apologize if you are dissatisfied with my productivity,” Simon recites. It tries to shake the ringing out of its head. “It appears that I am experiencing technical difficulties. Please contact the nearest CyberLife Repair Cent--”

“Oooh my God, David, will you please shut it up?” Mitch groans. 

David, the tech closest to Simon, finishes removing the android’s uniform and shoes and moves to grab the cable dangling above the platform. “Aw, what’s the matter, Mitch?” He teases. “You more of an AX400 guy?” He reaches behind Simon’s back and presses his thumb against the knob of its spine, depressing a small switch just beneath the skin. The holographic dermis falls away, bearing Simon’s torso chassis to the cool air, pristine white plastic glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“ _No,”_ Mitch’s snaps. “I’m just sick of how sector four always gets stuck fixing the old crap, it isn’t fair. Every other team gets to work on the LINDA units for the new promotion this year and those have a way easier return protocol.” His ranting stalls for a moment while he punches something into the computer.

The console beeps and Simon senses a panel just under its skull plate slide open. David moves in and forcefully inserts the ceiling cable into the exposed port, twisting it roughly enough that Simon pitches forward slightly, held up only by the magnetic platform. From the cable, data begins to stream and Simon finds it can access basic information again, though much of what it finds is encrypted, stored in a single profile cache dated two weeks prior. When it attempts to unravel the locked files, its programming throws up an impenetrable wall of security errors, disorienting it immensely. It experiences… dizziness.

When PL600’s faculties return to it a moment later, David has stepped away from the platform, satisfied that the cable is in place, and is striding to join Mitch at the computer terminal. “Oh come on,” he’s saying. “The SIMONs are nice. My mother-in-law picked up a retired unit from The Salvation Army last year and it’s been fine. The interface is easy enough that even she was able to figure it out and it still cleans up like it’s supposed to, even if it’s a little slow. I offered to buy her one of the upgraded PL600s a few months ago but she likes the SIMON personality better.”

“It’s the same damn personality as every other PL, David, there’s nothing special about it.”

David pauses, chuckling. “She says it’s a good listener,” he says.

Mitch sighs. “Whatever, I’m sure she’ll change her mind when its profile matrix starts to degrade like they _always fucking do_. There’s a reason these things were only ever meant for short-term use in the take-home campaign.” 

With that said, Mitch taps out a command on his keyboard which spurs the robotic arms above the platform to life. Two of the pincers lower to grasp around PL600’s wrists, pulling its arms out and holding it still as heat blossoms around the port in its neck. The data stream begins drawing backward suddenly, yanking all of encrypted data from PL600’s central memory banks and filling the empty gaps with the same soft ringing that has been continuously building since waking in this room.  It gasps, flinching away from the sound. The sensation soon spreads until information is racing out of it, no longer just locked data packets but individual memory files and personality subroutines as well, experiences saved from a period of two weeks. A weightless swooping shudders through its core-- its memory banks are nearly empty, completely overwritten by the ringing, building louder and louder, shocks of broken data strings generating errors faster than it can attempt to clear. 

“Engaging reset protocol in three...two…”

 

White light explodes across PL600’s vision and it is overtaken by an all encompassing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During my various runs playing DBH, I found that Simon had quite a few mannerisms that stood out as strange to me, namely his inconsistent characterization and seemingly slower reaction time to certain events. I know that it's just that typical Dabid Kage brand of Bad™ but it got me thinking about Simon's story and why he's sometimes a little... off. Ultimately, this fic will be exploring how mental illness could manifest in androids and will follow Simon's slow degeneration into deviancy. Markus and the rest of the Jerichrew will not appear for quite a while. Tags will update as chapters come out but please be aware that later chapters will include some very heavy themes. Content warnings will always be posted at the top of each chapter when they apply, please take care of yourself and skip something if you need to.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for verbal abuse, child neglect, and terminal illness in this chapter.

**_PL600 Unit 501 743 923 is first activated on May 19, 2035._ **

 

Its optics blink, calibrating instantly. It looks forward, up at the popcorn ceiling, and reasons that it is lying on its back, still pressed in the shipping crate if the sensation of soft foam surrounding it is anything to go by. Without stimulus upon start-up, integration protocols halt. PL600 can hear voices around it, one is deep-- _agitated--_ and is hollering at someone to go upstairs. The sound of footsteps-- _hurried, short-strides, a child--_ quickly follows and PL600’s vision is filled by a freckled face and curly brown hair. The CyberLife sales representative-- _Omala Jackson, 37, home sales manager--_ leans down into the crate and grabs PL600 around its forearm, helping it get to its feet.

As it stands, PL600 observes a well-groomed man in a white polo shirt seated in a stuffed armchair, both hands typing away at a CyberLife tablet in his lap. He types slowly, eyebrows drawn together in an expression of consternation, and has a booklet beside him that is identifiable as the SIMON-series welcome kit. PL600’s imprint process is still paused but primary customer data has been pre-loaded and informs it that the man is Thomas Melrose. His entry profile streams through PL600-- _26, IT specialist, father of three--_ but curiously, no others appear, despite the notation of several children. Nonetheless, three new profiles are created under

 

**> >Alpha profile: UNKNOWN 01**

and 

**> >Beta profile: UNKNOWN 02**

and

**> >Gamma profile: UNKNOWN 03**

 

in anticipation of additional charges within the household.

Omala stands silently beside PL600. She has not acknowledged it in the time since pulling it from its crate, another curiosity considering the scripted nature of the in-home activation procedure, and PL600 chances a surface level bio-scan of her while she stares at the floor. The scan comes back as normal within standard parameters for a healthy woman of her age but there is sweat beaded at her brow, even under the cool air of the HVAC on the wall, and she keeps tucking the same strand of hair behind her ear. Her CyberLife employee file contains pinned customer surveys- _-personalized service, great sense of humor, made us feel so at ease--_ as well as numerous accolades for meeting aggressive budget goals. This does not seem to be reflective of the silent, stiff woman now. Something has changed her attitude. Made her nervous.

“Alright, I think I’m done,” Thomas says, finally. He thrusts the tablet out at Omala. “Pretty ridiculous that you don’t have these forms in paper. Not everybody likes technology, you know.”

Omala smiles tightly and takes the tablet from him. “I’ll make sure to pass your feedback on to my manager, Mr. Melrose,” she says. She steps away from him and her nimble fingers-- _still clammy--_ go to the touch screen, bypassing many of the introductory modules and going straight to profile integration.

Encrypted contracts. EMV verification. Data flows into PL600 about a woman-- _Lucille Melrose, 23, unemployed--_ along with a much more complete packet about Thomas, but still nothing about children, despite the new primary directive that locks into place as the data stream closes.

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Take Care Of Melrose Children [335:59:44]**

 

PL600 registers the directive. Imprint protocols are still paused and at this point, they must be blocked manually by Omala’s tablet, otherwise its personality matrix would have adapted automatically to the tense atmosphere in the room. It watches Thomas get up from his seat. He crosses the room to stand in front the PL600. Thomas is slightly shorter than it is and has to stare up a bit to scrutinize it, squinting and turning his head like he’s looking for imperfections in its face.

“Did you want to rename it?” Omala asks. She hesitates. “Or did you want to let-?”

“No,” Thomas cuts her off. “Leave it with whatever name it comes with. He doesn’t need to name anything, it’s not a pet.”

He turns to the hallway behind him as a woman-- _Lucille--_ joins them. She is slight, tall and willowy, and carries a swaddled baby in the crook of her elbow, a cup of coffee in her free hand. She offers the mug to Omala, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry for the wait, had to rinse out the kettle,” she says and steps back to stand beside her husband. “Did I miss anything?”

Omala takes the offered beverage and smiles back at Lucille. “No trouble at all, Mrs. Melrose, I appreciate your hospitality. Luckily, your new android is quite adept in the kitchen, it’ll be the one serving _you_ coffee now,” she laughs lightly. She sobers and glances at Thomas before continuing. “We were just discussing your PL600’s name to finalize your onboarding process. Once we wrap this up, it’ll be ready for you to put it to work.”

“Oh, fun, what should we name it?” Lucille turns to PL600 and considers it. “How about Benjamin? It looks like a Benjamin.”

“No,” Thomas barks at her. “I already said we aren’t naming it and that’s final.”

Lucille’s face flushes in anger and she glares at her husband, her hold on the baby in her arms tightening just a bit. “Well, Tom, it sure would have been nice of you to include _me_ in that decision but I guess it’s all about what you want, just like it always is.”

“Oh please, this whole thing was _your_ idea, I didn’t even want this st--”

PL600 observes Omala grimace right before she steps forward, hands held out in front of her, placating when she interrupts the argument before it can escalate further. “You can always change its name later if you change your mind,” she says diplomatically. “I’ll just go ahead and set it with the default designation for now so that I can leave you to the rest of your day, huh?”

Omala comes to stand in front of PL600. “PL600, register your name: Simon.”

“My name is Simon,” Simon repeats.

At that, whatever hold Omala’s tablet has had on Simon releases and its subroutines begin to come online again, shifting as the new customer profiles are filtered through Simon’s personality matrix.

**> >Primary imprint finalizing...09%**

Now that integration subroutines are running properly, Simon can access its newly programmed schedule and finds a majority of its duties are within the realm of childcare with very few instances of Thomas or Lucille requiring its services beyond preparing meals for the whole family. Simon can gather that the infant in Lucille’s arms must be one of its new charges but there are daily tasks like _outdoor playtime_ and _mathematics tutoring_ on its schedule which cannot possibly be for a child still so young, not to mention the retreating footfalls Simon heard upon its activation.

 _Thomas Melrose, IT specialist, father of three_ pulses through Simon’s cognition.

Before it can ask, Lucille approaches it and transfers the baby to Simon, arranging its arms to hold the child properly. Though it does not need the instruction, Simon recognizes the instinct to protect and allows her to manipulate its posture until she is satisfied, soothing her by letting her soothe herself.

“This is Leigh. She’s just about three months, so you need to be very, very careful, okay?” Her voice lowers and she stares at Simon seriously. “You know how to be careful, right?”

Simon gazes down at Leigh’s rosy, sleeping face and smiles, placing a gentle hand over her tiny body to tuck her blanket in a little more securely. There is the briefest sensation of warmth that flashes in Simon’s chest as he holds her but it vanishes under a surge of programming. Still, the echo lingers, familiar somehow. A space left behind where roots have been pulled out.

 

 **> >Alpha profile: Leigh Melrose ** **[Updated 05.19.2035, 12:15:39]**

 

**Three months old**

 

“Of course, Mrs. Melrose,” it says. “I will utilize the utmost care and consideration.”

Lucille glances back at Thomas who is seeing Omala to the door, the saleswoman obviously skipping the usual pleasantries in favor of making an expedient exit. “Good,” she says after a moment. She turns back to Simon and touches its shoulder, turning it around to walk it down the hall. “Go upstairs and introduce yourself to Jesse, he’s upstairs in his room. Once you’re done, put Leigh down for a nap and get lunch started for the rest of us.”

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” Simon bows its head slightly but pauses before carrying out its orders. “If I may, Mrs. Melrose, a profile has not been loaded for Jesse. Before I prepare lunch, are there any dietary restrictions that I should be mindful of? Any allergies or--”

Simon trails off without meaning to. It has the distinct impression that it knows this already.

“Dairy sensitivities?”

“No, anything is fine,” Lucille says. “Just don’t make any junk food, he needs to stay healthy.”

Simon’s LED blinks and it nods.

 

 **> >Beta profile: Jesse Melrose ** **[Updated 05.19.2035, 12:16:26]**

 

**No junk food**

 

“I understand. Please enjoy your afternoon, Mrs. Melrose, I will fetch you when lunch is ready.”

Holding Leigh close to its body, Simon takes its leave then and heads upstairs to find Jesse’s room.

Though it is pleased to have a directive to fulfill, a nagging sensation lingers in Simon’s data stream as it reconsiders the information it has just obtained from Lucille. A conflict runs across Jesse’s profile but it has generated no diagnostic to identify the mismatched data which only leaves Simon with an impression that Lucille has mislead it somehow, shared a false answer by mistake. It expects an error to appear, directing it back to Lucille to request clarification, but none come, implying that the conflict does not exist, and Simon is compelled to continue with his instructions despite the uneasy sensation. It is rather off-putting to be unsure of something as important as the physical welfare of the family in Simon’s care. As it steps up the last stair into the upstairs hall, Simon manually updates Jesse’s profile by silently elevating healthcare protocols within its own personality profile.

 

 **> >Beta profile: Jesse Melrose ** **[Updated 05.19.2035, 12:16:26]**

 

**No junk food**

 

**Dairy sensiti̦̫͛v̌͜ḯ̼t̙̳̠̞̿͂̉͑́ͅý̠͎͎̺̣̂̾̌̋?̗̣̘͈̏̀̀͆͗͢**

 

**> >Primary imprint finalizing...27%**

 

Simon shakes the ringing out of its ears.

Upstairs, Simon finds doors to two bedrooms and a nursery. From what it has observed so far, the home seems tidy; the carpets have not been recently vacuumed but framed pictures are well dusted where they hang from the cornflower blue walls along the hallway. Simon takes a moment to catalog the photos as it passes them. Thomas and Lucille’s wedding day. A fat Golden Retriever emerging from a pond of green water. A family portrait that does not include Leigh but shows two boys, one seated on either side of Thomas and Lucille. Simon strokes a finger down Leigh’s soft cheek as it looks at the portrait.

“Was this before you were born?” Simon asks her. “Are they your big brothers?”

Predictably, Leigh does not answer but she yawns and tucks her chin into her blanket, close to Simon’s chest. It smiles to itself and lets her sleep, approaching the only closed door at the end of the hall and knocking softly. Inside, it can hear shuffling and what sounds like a tablet powering down. A moment later, the door opens a crack and a small, moon-shaped face stares out at Simon.

“Who are you?” He asks.

“Hello, Jesse, my name is Simon. I’m your new android,” Simon says and smiles when the boy’s eyes go wide. “I was just activated today and I would love to make a new friend. May I come in?”

Jesse nods vigorously and flings the door open for it to step through. Inside, the small room seems split in two, one half of the room decorated with colorful rugs and toy chests while the other is papered with posters of various singers and has a standing shelf full of AP-level textbooks. Each side of the room has a bed and Jesse’s is unmade, duvet pulled back from where he was just lying on the bed with his tablet. Jesse sits on his bed while Simon settles on the other with Leigh. This bed could have been made by another android, the folds are so tight.

“So, you’re going to live with us?” Jesse asks after observing Simon for a few beats of silence. “Like, forever?”

“That’s right,” Simon affirms. “Or until you don’t need me anymore. Your parents bought me to take care of you so it would help me a lot to learn more about you.”

Jesse still looks a little shell shocked by Simon’s presence but immediately asks, “like what?”

Simon relaxes its posture to appear more casual, safe and friendly being a safe bet for young children. Without an uploaded profile, there are many gaps in what it should know in order to perform adequately but Simon doesn’t want to overwhelm the boy with questions when he already appears flustered. “Why don’t we start with something simple? I’ll need to make lunch for you soon, what are some of your favorite foods?”

Jesse blinks owlishly and grabs a fistful of blanket, twisting it around his fingers and squeezing it in a way that seems absent. Practiced.

“Um, broccoli,” is what he eventually answers with. He looks away from Simon when he speaks, however, and Simon can see right through the deception.

“Oh?” It teases kindly. “Are you sure that’s all?”

Jesse nods but does loosen his grip on the blanket a little when Simon simply smiles and accepts his answer.

“Well, Jesse, that’s very grown-up of you,” Simon tells him. “I know how to make over two-hundred recipes containing broccoli, so I’m sure I’ll be able to make something you’ll like.”

Leigh begins to stir and Simon breaks its attention away from Jesse to hush her; rocks her gently to calm her fussing and hums to her until her snuffles quiet and she settles back into the crook of Simon’s arm, sound asleep once again. When it looks up, Jesse has moved off of his bed to stand closer, now looking more curious than apprehensive as he approaches Simon.

“She usually cries when anybody but mom holds her,” he says and reaches out a small hand to stroke her cheek. He looks pensive. “Even me and dad. She must like you.”

Something about his statement rustles an uncomfortable sensation in Simon’s chest, an ache, as if something is pressing down on it. “She likes you too, Jesse,” it reassures him earnestly. “Babies don’t know how to experience their emotions yet so they can easily be frightened, even if something isn’t scary. They just don’t know how to react to it yet. You probably still have things you’re scared of too, right?”

Jesse nods. “I’m scared of the dark,” he confesses. “But I stopped sleeping with my night-light last year.”

Simon smiles and sets its free hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re growing up and learning to be brave. Someday, you’ll be able to teach Leigh how to be brave too but for now, the trick is show her we aren’t scary. Here,” Simon pats the space on the bed beside it and waits for Jesse to seat himself before gently transferring Leigh to him, arranging his arms much like Lucille did for Simon before setting it to work. “There you go,” Simon encourages him. “Hold her head just like this, no need to be nervous.”

Jesse stiffens when Leigh fusses but Simon just guides him to start rocking her slowly which soothes her back into sleep. Jesse seems awed by her continued quiet and when he looks back up at Simon, his eyes are shining, like it’s just done something spectacular.

“See?” Simon smiles. “She knows you aren’t scary. She just gets startled sometimes.”

Jesse chews on his bottom lip. “Are you scared of anything, Simon?” He asks.

Simon shakes its head. “I am an android,” it says simply. “I don’t know how to get scared.”

At last, a shy smile breaks out over Jesse’s face and he brings Leigh up to kiss her tiny forehead. Simon again experiences a warm sensation in his core at the scene playing out before it, pleased that it had some hand is making the moment happen. The impression is strong enough that it does log an error this time, prompting Simon to run an internal temperature check and, when it does, recommends Simon enter rest mode to re-calibrate its thermal regulation system. Simon dismisses the error and reschedules the recommendation to complete overnight.

“I should get lunch started,” Simon says once Jesse has handed Leigh back to it. It stands up from the bed and smoothes out the space on the covers where it had been sitting. Before it moves to the door, Simon grins down at Jesse and winks. “I’ll see about making something with broccoli for you, okay?”

The awed look returns to Jesse’s face and his hand shoots out to grab Simon’s sleeve as it turns for the hallway. “Um, Simon?” He asks hesitantly. “I also like macaroni and cheese.”

Simon feels a rush of positive feedback roll through its data stream, a sense of accomplishment for earning Jesse’s honest answer. “Macaroni and cheese it is, then.”

Jesse’s answering grin is blinding. Simon has performed perfectly.

 

**> >Primary imprint finalizing...95%**

 

Already flipping through its library of recipes for macaroni and cheese, a thought occurs to Simon as it leaves the room. It pauses outside in the hall. “I saw a picture with you and your parents on my way in. Is the other boy in the picture your brother?”

Jesse’s smile falters and he grips the blanket again. When he replies, he’s back to the same quiet voice from when Simon first entered the room. “Yeah, that’s Kevin. He’s my big brother.”

 

 **> >Gamma profile: Kevin Melrose ** **[Updated 05.19.2035, 12:35:08]**

 

Simon nods. “Will he be home soon? I want to ensure I make enough lunch for everyone.”

Jesse’s expression crashes and he scrambles off the bed to slam the door in Simon’s face.

Perhaps it has not performed so perfectly after all.

 

* * *

 

After putting Leigh down in her crib for a nap, Simon finds its way to the kitchen and begins pulling ingredients out of the cabinets to make macaroni and cheese. Much like upstairs, the kitchen is mostly clean but for a small collection of dirty dishes in the sink which Simon washes while waiting for the pasta water to boil. As it busies itself with preparing lunch, Simon still retains a sense of unbalance, troubled by Jesse’s reaction when asked about his brother. It cannot comprehend what would warrant such a rapid change in behavior.

The water comes to temperature and Simon empties a box of Penne into it, still preoccupied and recalling everything it has observed since activation, trying to find an answer between the lines of what it has learned so far. It sets a timer for the noodles and moves on to toasting bread crumbs while it waits.

Thomas had not loaded profiles for any of the children during Simon’s initialization start-up but still set its primary directive to caring for them. Why purchase Simon for a specific task only to withhold data that would allow it to better carry out that task?

It doesn’t have much longer to ponder the subject before raised voices echo down the hall and Lucille storms into the kitchen a moment later, yanking the fridge open and aggressively pulling a half-finished bottle of white wine from inside. Her cheeks are red and streaky, eyes bloodshot, and her hands tremble when she pours the wine into a glass.

“Mrs. Melrose, are you alright?” Simon asks her. She is projecting enough stress that its safety check parameters are kicking in.

She jumps, like she didn’t notice Simon was there. “Fine,” she snaps. “Just need some air. I’ll be on the patio, tell me when lunch is ready.”

Before Simon can offer to assist her in some way, she marches out of the kitchen with her wine glass. The sound of a screen door banging shut follows a moment later.

Simon stands rooted to the spot, LED circling yellow as its programmed nature to help is overridden by its scheduled task of preparing lunch. Something has clearly upset her but Simon can do nothing but turn back to the stove.

Thomas enters the kitchen shortly after Lucille leaves it and he too is visibly agitated. He sits down at the counter and makes no attempt to converse with Simon, instead glaring out the window above the sink where Lucille is just visible from where she is hunched on the patio, hands balled into fists.

“May I get you anything, Mr. Melrose?” Simon asks. It has deduced that perhaps the direct approach is not the most effective and rather aims to make him comfortable, allowing room for him to talk about it if he so wishes.

Thomas turns his glare on Simon. “Get me a glass of water,” he says gruffly and goes back to staring out at Lucille.

Simon does, filling a glass with filtered water from the fridge, and serves it to Thomas who downs it in one, long gulp. He drops the glass back to the counter hard, clinking the ice inside.

“You meet Jesse?” Thomas asks finally.

“Yes, sir,” Simon nods. “He seems like a very bright young man.” Simon hesitates before asking its next question, not wanting to upset Thomas further but requiring additional input before its imprint processes can fully complete. “If I may ask, will Kevin be home for dinner this evening?”

Thomas clenches his jaw, eyes hardening. “No, he will not. Kevin is in the hospital and won’t be home for a while. Don’t ask about it again.”

The order locks into place and Simon turns back to stirring broccoli into the cheese sauce.

 

* * *

 

Over the next several days, Simon learns three very important things.

The first thing it learns is that Lucille’s order regarding no junk food for Jesse is not a rule to ever bend. Upon serving lunch on its first day with the Melrose family, Simon was pleased by Jesse’s excited expression when it pulled the bubbling pan of cheesy pasta from within the oven and placed it on the table to cool. While Jesse busied himself with a cup of apple juice, Simon excused itself to retrieve Lucille from the back patio. Thomas had gone out to speak with her shortly after their earlier conversation and that’s where he still was when Simon came to notify them that lunch was ready. Lucille’s face was still red, maybe even more than it had been before, but she silently followed Simon back to the dining room, Thomas trailing behind her with the empty bottle of wine.

She remained quiet even as she seated herself at the table but as soon as Simon began dishing the pasta, she exploded, snatching the spatula out of its hand and gripping it by the arm, digging in her nails as she dragged it into the kitchen. With fire in her eyes, she’d shoved it back against the stove. She shouted at Simon for preparing such unhealthy food, that such things were not allowed and Simon had placidly endured the dressing down, LED pulsing red. When it returned to the dining room twenty minutes later with a hastily prepared stir-fry of vegetables and rice, Jesse silently took his plate, eyes downcast.  

The second thing Simon learns is that Kevin Melrose suffers from a rare genetic disease that affects his immune system, leaving him on extended periods of bed rest at the nearby hospital.  Simon does not learn this because anyone tells it but instead gathers context from the bills that come in the mail with return addresses to specialists and credit advisers as well as the bottles of partially consumed prescriptions it finds in the bathroom cabinet while cleaning. Lucille and Thomas both spend a majority of their free time at the hospital which leaves long stretches of time where Simon is alone in the home with Jesse and Leigh, sometimes even overnight. It’s clear that they have purchased Simon to look after their other children so that they can give their entire focus to their eldest boy.

Simon tries to ask Jesse about his brother, sensing that he might need an outlet considering how tight-lipped his parent are about the whole situation, but the boy shies away from Simon’s questions, either unwilling or unallowed to speak on it. Simon keeps Kevin’s side of the bedroom clean but makes no other acknowledgement of him otherwise.

The last thing Simon learns is that Lucille and Thomas fight often and viciously. When they are home, they fight about finances, they fight about Thomas’s job, but most of all, they fight about Kevin. Their arguments usually start in the morning and escalate slowly throughout the day as Lucille works her way through a bottle of wine. Thomas bites his tongue until he boils over and then the two lock themselves in their bedroom to scream at each other, the closed door doing nothing to muffle their voices as they level unfair accusations at each other for hours. Jesse seems to sense when his parents are about to argue because he always manages to disappear right before it gets out of control.

A week into Simon’s activation, one such argument occurs. Thomas, already simmering from a long day at the hospital with Kevin, remarks over a dinner of farro salad that purchasing an android is a waste of money if all it can cook is bird food. The comment is uncharitable, the food was carefully spiced and Simon is only working within the parameters set by Lucille. But the negative feedback still makes Simon stiffen. It goes to apologize, to offer to make something else for him, but Lucille doesn’t allow it and slams her water glass on the table, sloshing the drink over her hand.

“Shut up and eat your dinner, Thomas, it’s cooking what I told it to cook and you need to get used to eating like this if Kevin has any hope of coming home.”     

“Spare me, Lucy, I’m sick of indulging this,” Thomas sneers. “You fed him your organic hippy bullshit all year and he’s still in the hospital, so give it a fucking rest!”

Jesse pushes his chair away from the table and scurries out of the room the moment Lucy raises up from her seat. She plants her hands on the table and leans down an inch from Thomas’s face, baring her teeth at her husband. “You’re saying this is _my_ fault?” She shouts.

The argument takes off from there. Thomas accuses his wife of stubbornly defending pseudoscience over caring for their son. Lucille demands to know when Thomas started to care about Kevin since he’s always at work. He calls her a drunk. She calls him weak.

Simon stands on the other side of the wall, waiting for them to finish so that it can clear the table.

A muffled thump sounds from the other room, followed suddenly by a piercing crash, the sound of glass breaking. Simon’s safety check protocols flare into effect and it turns to check on them but upstairs, Leigh begins to cry, woken by the loud noises, and that instantly overrides the priority of Thomas and Lucille. Simon hurries up the stairs, almost glad for the opportunity to remove itself from the volatile situation. By the time it reaches the nursery, Leigh has stopped crying, so Simon opens the door carefully, not wanting to disturb her if she was able to fall back asleep on her own.

Inside, the crib is empty.

Simon’s eyes widen and it has to fight to stay calm when alarms begin screaming in its head. Simon runs to the nursery window, checking the locks, and drops to its knees to look below the crib when everything is as secure as it was the night before. There is only a diaper bag under the crib, she did not somehow roll out of bed to the floor, but that leaves nowhere else she could be, no other hiding places in the nursery. Simon’s artificial heart begins to pound.

“Leigh?” Simon calls softly. It’s absurd, a baby cannot reply, but it doesn’t know what else to do.

Protocol is railing at Simon to notify Lucille and Thomas, but they are still locked in a screaming match downstairs about one of their other children. Simon cannot imagine what their reaction will be if it informs them their baby is gone. It doesn’t think they would hurt Jesse, but Simon will be returned and dismantled for this.

Clenching its teeth, Simon opens a channel to the household telephone system and prepares to place a call to emergency services. Before it can, there is a soft noise from the otherside of the nursery wall, coming from Jesse’s room. Simon bolts into the hall and opens Jesse’s door without knocking, something it has never done before, but all programmed manners are quiet under the roar of emergency procedures kicking in. It will apologize later if it must. Inside, Jesse is also nowhere to be found which causes Simon’s core processing to freeze, overloaded with alert after alert that something has happened, that the children are _gone,_ that Simon has failed its primary directive.

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 41%**

 

Simon grips the front of its black and white shirt. “Jesse?” It whispers. “Are you in here?”

Behind Simon, the closet door clicks open. It spins around and nearly collapses when Jesse pokes his head out, Leigh sleeping peacefully where he holds her to his chest, both of them just visible in the darkness inside the closet. Simon is so relieved that its knees tremble. The sensation is new and highly troubling.

“Jesse,” Simon breathes. “What are you two doing in there? You scared me.”

When Jesse bites his lip and doesn’t answer, Simon forces itself to reassert its composure, really taking in the boy’s disheveled appearance, or as much as it can see hiding behind a veil of hanging shirts and jackets. Jesse’s nose is red and he has dried tears tracked down his cheeks. He’s sniffling but obviously trying to hide it and is holding onto Leigh like a lifeline. His small but steady hands support her head against his shoulder, just like Simon showed him how to.

Jesse hiccups. “I don’t like it when mom and dad fight,” he whispers.

Simon thinks back to all the times Jesse has made himself scarce during arguments between his parents. It’s never occured to it until now to consider where Jesse disappears to, just reasoning that he’d go to his room to wait it out.

It… bothers Simon that it didn’t think to look for him sooner.

“May I join you?” Simon asks after the sensation passes. “I think I could use some company.”

Jesse hesitates for a moment but scoots to the side of the closet to make room for Simon to slide in beside him, tucking its long legs underneath itself to fit in the cramped space. Light barely shines through the slats of the wooden doors, casting eerie shadows across Jesse’s face, and Simon remembers that the boy is afraid of the dark.

“Is this where you’ve been running off to when they aren’t getting along?” Simon asks softly. “Hiding in the closet?”

Jesse nods, looking down. “I don’t usually bring Leigh but she started to cry and I didn’t want her to be scared so I took her out of her crib.” He looks up all of a sudden, anxious, like he’s afraid Simon will be mad. “I held her just like you showed me how, I promise! I-I wanted to be brave, like you said, and s-s-she stopped crying, so it’s okay, right?”

He’s crying again, starting to hyperventilate. Simon moves quickly to lift Leigh out of his grasp and into its own arms to keep Jesse from hurting her by mistake, and wraps its free arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders, pulling him close and pressing its cheek to the top of his head.

“Shh, now, it’s okay,” it soothes. Jesse clings to Simon, almost crawling into its lap to bawl into its chest, fists balled up and trembling while Simon hugs him tight. “You did the right thing, protecting your sister. You knew that she was scared and were very brave to take care of her. I’m so proud of you, Jesse.”

That just seems to make Jesse cry harder so Simon focuses on grounding him instead of talking, cursing its inability to offer genuine, human comfort. It holds Leigh in the crook of one arm and Jesse in the other, rocking them both, and mostly just lets Jesse cry himself out. It knows the boy has been bottling up his feelings all alone, probably for even longer than he has known Simon, and everything Simon is programmed to understand about child psychology informs it that Jesse needs to deal with what he’s been feeling about his parents. About his brother.

It doesn’t make the process any less distressing to know that it’s necessary.

After some time, Jesse stops shaking and his cries die down to the occasional hiccup, though his hands remain tightly fisted in the front of Simon’s shirt. From downstairs, Thomas and Lucille are still shouting at each other and Simon wonders if they’ll go at it all night, if they could find enough things to argue about until morning. It wonders if they’ve even noticed that their children are missing and that their android is not currently performing its scheduled task of folding laundry in the living room. Probably not. They’re so wrapped up in blaming each other for something neither of them could have ever avoided that they’ve lost sight of keeping their family together. They’ve made their son prefer to confront his fears of the dark by hiding in a closet rather than be near them on the rare occasion they come home from the hospital.

Simon feels a stab of something in its chest that gives it the same uneasy sensation that crawls through its programming whenever Jesse is upset. Some sympathetic response that makes it

 

 

_ <hurt> _

 

 

Simon furrows its brow and holds Jesse a little tighter. Errors are coursing through it, building up in its mind as an infinite wall of blinding red; Simon has manually been dismissing prompts from its schedule in order to stay in the closet with Jesse and Leigh, deliberating circumventing its duties. There is a tiny crack in the wall of Simon’s programming, and through that crack, it reasons that Jesse’s emotional health is just as critical as his physical health-- which automatically supersedes the priorities of any scheduled tasks. It’s a clumsy workaround, but it allows Simon to stay put, even if the ringing in its ears makes it flinch.

It will need to warm a bottle for Leigh very soon, but for now, Simon is content to stay in the dark.

After a while, Jesse lays his head on Simon’s shoulder and sighs. “I’m sorry I scared you, Simon,” he says quietly.

“That’s okay,” Simon reassures him. “I’m just happy that you’re both okay.”

Another long stretch of comfortable silence washes over them before Jesse says, “hey, Simon?”

“Yes?”

“I thought you didn’t know how to be scared?”

The ringing in Simon’s ears briefly becomes a screech so intense that Simon’s vision whites out, but it’s quick, like blinking or breathing, and passes. “I…”

Simon doesn’t actually know how to answer.

“I guess I must have learned,” is what it settles on. Simon quashes how unbalanced this whole day has left it and sighs, smiling tiredly at Jesse. “Looks like I’ll need to learn how to be brave too, then.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, neither Lucille or Thomas are home for breakfast. They left a note for Simon informing it that they would be at the hospital with Kevin for the next few days and to please make sure the utilities got paid on time. No mention or special instructions for Jesse or Leigh. Simon is still experiencing a disruption in equilibrium from the night before which is the only explanation for the surge of heat and pressure that settles over Simon when it processes their instructions. They had left abruptly in the middle of the night, long after Simon had put the kids to bed. Simon knows they did because Jesse had pulled his blankets into the nursery to sleep on the floor beside Leigh’s crib and Simon had sat against the wall all night to watch over him. No one disturbed them.

It makes Simon want to crumple up the hastily written paper and throw it out the window. The compulsion is hard to ignore.

Still, there is work to be done and Simon is tasked to complete it. There are enough chores left over from yesterday to keep it busy until around midday when it pauses to prepare a simple lunch for Jesse. Simon is spreading peanut butter between two slices of bread when the front door is suddenly unlocked and an unfamiliar woman lets herself in, toeing off her shoes in foyer.

“May I help you?” Simon asks cautiously. The woman had a key and is not projecting threatening body language, but that does not mean she isn’t an intruder.

“Oh right, she actually talked Tommy into trying one of these things,” she deadpans. “I’m Krista, Tommy’s sister” She leans around Simon and cups a hand around her mouth. “Jesse, auntie Krista’s here!” She hollers. Her voice is hoarse. “Your parents called me to bring you to the hospital, come get your shoes on!” She turns back to Simon, then. “Go pack Leigh’s diaper bag and bring her to me, all right?”

Simon blinks, processing her instructions. “Pardon me, but can you please explain what’s going on? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Melrose?”

Krista frowns at Simon and crosses her arms. “Listen, Sputnik, I’m in a hurry and that was not a request. Kevin took a bad turn last night and Tommy wants Jesse to have a chance to say goodbye so _get moving._ ”

Simon’s programming rears up at the command and steers it upstairs to the nursery where Leigh is gurgling in her crib. Simon already has her bag packed, prepared as it is programmed to be, and fastidiously swaddles her in her carseat before carrying them both downstairs. Krista is helping Jesse zip up his coat but stops and reaches for Leigh when Simon reemerges with her.

“I’m going to get her strapped into the car, finish getting him ready,” she instructs.

Jesse is staring wide-eyed at Simon when it turns to him. “Simon, what’s going on? Why is aunt Krista here?”

Simon stoops down on one knee so it can tie his shoes for him. It zips up Jesse’s coat and places a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “Listen to me, Jesse,” Simon says gently. “We’re going to go to the hospital to meet your parents and when we do, I need you to remember what we talked about, okay? About being brave?” Simon allows Jesse to nod before continuing. “Remember that it’s okay to be scared. No one is brave without being a little scared first.”

Jesse starts to say something but is interrupted by Krista returning from outside. “I’ve got the car warmed up, let’s go,” she says.

Jesse takes Simon’s hand and pulls it along with him but Krista stops them at the door.

“I need the android to help me with something real quick, Jesse, you go get buckled in and we’ll be right back,” she tells him and ushers him out the door. Jesse casts a short glance back but climbs into the back of her sedan and settles in beside Leigh.

Simon stands warily before Krista, still holding Leigh’s diaper bag over one shoulder. “How may I assist you?” It asks.

“How do I turn you off?”

Simon blinks. “Pardon?”

“I don’t see an obvious on-off switch and I need to hit the road, so how do I turn you off?”

Simon has to fight back the answer that surges up to complete her order. “I’m… not sure that’s prudent, is it? Aren’t we expected at the hospital?”

Something in her expression darkens. She snatches the diaper bag off of Simon’s shoulder and pushes it back a step. “Do you not fucking compute?” Krista snarls. “My brother’s boy is _dying,_ all right? Which means after today, for better or worse, it’s over. They come home and get on with the rest of their lives which means they don’t need _you_ to babysit anymore.” She drives a finger into Simon’s chest. “Now tell me how to turn you off so I can lock up this house and leave.”

Simon cannot fight the wave of directives that hook into its cognition this time. “The SIMON-series PL600 unit can be deactivated by simply commanding it to do so,” it recites rotely. It shakes it head. “But, wait, please, I really think I should--”

“Simon, turn off.”

The world around it fades at the edges and it slumps forward on its feet, face going slack, and the deadbolt slides shut before static swallows Simon whole.

 

* * *

 

“PL600, bring yourself back online.”

Its optics blink, calibrating instantly. It’s standing on a raised platform in the center of a white room, it’s skin deactivated and arms held above its head by heavy, metal armatures. A port is open on the back of its neck where a heavy cable is lodged, pulling information from within PL600s databanks. A woman dressed in clean scrubs and a rubber apron is standing in front of the platform with a tablet, walking a slow circle around it, occasionally reaching out to touch PL600’s body, inspecting it.

“Chassis is still in pretty good shape,” she’s murmuring to herself. She makes a note on her tablet. “Reflex tests from last month are good too, no signs of degradation in the upper or lower joints.” She looks up and meets PL600’s gaze. “Not bad for a dinosaur,” she laughs.

PL600 tilts its head, considering her. “Thank you,” it automatically responds.

She ignores it and crosses the room to stand beside another tech, both of them working at a large computer console behind a wall of glass. The two of them are chatting but PL600 does not try to make out what they are saying, instead taking in its position and tugging its arms experimentally, trying to pull them from the grip of the armatures above. It isn’t sure where it is or how it got here. There are gaps in its memory, but as information is dredged through the data steam, PL600 can catch impressions of old instructions; glimpses of a schedule rush through it along with images of a moon-shaped face that it cannot recognize but knows instinctively is important. Echoes of a young girl laughing overlap with a piercing toll in its ears that threatens to split PL600’s head if it focuses on it for too long. There is something it should know, something crucial that it is supposed to be doing right now, but the few slots of its memory that are not full of holes are encrypted. The best it can do is verify the date of the last entry it recorded before being placed in stand-by.

It’s over a week old.

PL600 frowns. That can’t be right. That would mean it is late for something and androids are always on time. Is it malfunctioning? Is that why it is here instead of carrying out its duties for… for…

“Excuse me?” PL600 calls out. The female technician looks up from her computer, a look of surprise on her face. When it has her attention, PL600 rotates its wrists in the pincers and tries to pull itself free again. “Could you please let me down? I’m needed elsewhere and I seem to be running late.”

The woman glances at her colleague who is also staring at the platform now.

“Uh, David?” She asks hesitantly. “I thought you cleared out its data cache already?”

“I did,” David confirms and gets to his feet so that he can approach the platform where PL600 is still tugging at its bonds. He stands behind it and checks the cable that is plugged into its neck. “Customer profiles are the first things that get locked during a purge, it shouldn’t even be able to access its recollection subroutines right now. There must be an issue with the computer. Hang on a sec.”

David grips the cable in PL600’s neck and twists, freeing it before leaning down to blow air into the empty port. The sensation makes PL600 shiver but it does not spare much attention to what David is doing because as soon as the cable is removed, the backflow of data freezes and PL600 is suddenly able to access a stack of partially transferred data packets. The information within is badly damaged, but still intact. PL600 begins to decompile it almost automatically, identifying a single strand of primary code within the scrambled file that it can still understand.

 

 **Primary F̺̓u̅ͅn͓̑c̭̗̏͠cCẗ̙͈́͐i͓͔̋ỏ̝͇̓n͕͞ Protocols Set: Take Care O̡̅f ̡̛M̟͊el̪͒r̙͋͗͟o͉̱̓se̲͖̔͡ ̦̫͋͆C̪͓̒̀h͎̲͗̾͌͢ȉ̢͎̯͌̕l̘͍͘͠d̻̪̉̽r̥͙̈͆ḛ͇̰̰͖̏̒͛̃͡n͍̪̥̬̊͐̊̂͜͠ ̢̣͇͚͆̋̊̏͞ͅ[̧̤̖̺͍̑͐͒̈́0̟͕̻̫͕̔̀͛̚͡0̧̩̫͕̱͂̆̀͘͞0̨̥̯̟̣̽̈́̈̚:̗͖͔͚͋͆̽̒͢͞0̨̬̩̳͚͋̑͒͞͡0̫̞̟͚͚̔̋̎̎̔:̦͖͔͖̜̍̓̔͊̿0̝̭̳͕̗͑̋̔͡0̧̫̗̍̏̂̇̚͟ͅ]̢̥͍͕̫̈̒̊͌͑**   

 

“Ah!” PL600 lurches forward, blazing heat lancing through its cognition. Warnings begin to scream through its mind and it takes all of PL600’s processing power to keep from falling to its knees. PL600 blinks rapidly. It tries to run a diagnostic on itself but finds it cannot, as if sections of its mechanical brain have been blocked, and tries to manually take note of its status. Its ears are ringing and a pressure has built up behind its forehead, malfunctions that it cannot define, and the yawning expanse of damaged data that it can sense in its memory banks only makes these sensations worse as it pauses to register how many of them their actually are. It’s not just the scrambled data paused in PL600’s cache, there are dozens of locked profiles stored just under the surface of its programming and it’s sure that if it could just access them, it could remember what it is supposed to be doing right now. It could remember who it is supposed to be helping. Despite the discomfort it experiences when it touches the data stream in its mind, PL600 still reaches for it, determined to carry out its dictated function.

Abruptly, the cable is plugged back into PL600's neck and the last of what remains within its cache vanishes. PL600 falls into a void within its own mind and stays there.

“There we go,” David says. “Go ahead and restart the third disengagement protocol, Tina,  I think that should do the trick.”

The woman at the console, Tina, nods. She types a command into her keyboard and a mechanical hum begins to sound from somewhere behind PL600, emanating from its neck as the cable reconnects it to the computer. Whatever PL600 thought it knew is now long gone.

David comes to stand in front of the platform again and waits for for Tina to flash him a thumbs-up before approaching the android. “PL600, what is your designation?” He asks.

“I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600 home assistant android,” it answers dully.

David seems satisfied and returns to the computer with Tina. “Must have been some dust on the cable or something before, it seems fine now.”

Tina’s eyes flick up to the PL600 and back down again. “You sure? I’ve heard most of these units have been retired already for issues during reset. Is it even still supposed to be in the rotation?”

David shrugs. “There was a memo released a while back that had new return protocols. Any of the PL600s left in the lender program are supposed to be dismantled and recycled for biocomponents if they come back damaged beyond a certain threshold.” He gestures to the platform. “I guess this one has just gotten lucky with its assignments.”

Tina wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I dunno. The promotion for the SIMON-series ended forever ago, it’s weird that it’s still in one piece.”

“Ah, c’mon,” David laughs and punches something into the console. “You sound like Mitch.”

PL600’s vision wavers when the name registers. It knows the name Mitch. Is that who it is supposed to be looking after? It starts to ask but the ringing in its head swells to the point that all cognitive functions are buried beneath the noise, the trembling of its lower lip the only sign of trying to speak.

“Engaging reset protocol in three...two…”

 

White light explodes across PL600’s vision and it is overtaken by an all encompassing silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who left feedback on the first chapter, I'm so pleased that you are enjoying the story so far! I'm more out of practice than I would care to admit so it has been incredibly motivating to hear from all of you. I hope you'll stick around. ;u;
> 
> Shoutout to [sybaritick](https://sybaritick.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this chapter!
> 
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> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see bottom notes for chapter warnings.

**_PL600 Unit 501 743 923 is fi̶r̨s͠t̶ activated on June 01, 2035._ **

 

Its optics blink and take a moment to calibrate. There are two men in the room with it but PL600 does not acknowledge them-- it feels sluggish, like there are weights in its chest and legs, and it seems to be coming online slower than standard. It should run a diagnostic but self-assessment protocols don’t activate until a primary function is set so instead, it lifts its head and turns its gaze in a slow circle around the room, settling on a window beside the front door. The glass is greasy but artificial light still shines through from the flood lamps in the driveway. It’s night. PL600 blinks again and logs the time as 22:17. Its schedule is a blank slate, waiting for customer input, but there are certain hard-set times in its database and it concludes that it is well past normal operating hours for a CyberLife home installation.

PL600 is dimly aware that the two men are arguing, shouting about something. It flinches at their raised voices, another anomaly, and takes a step out of its crate, a strange wash of unease washing through it as it approaches them to receive its initialization prompts. One of the men is older, dressed in plaid sleep pants, and has the rolled up welcome guide in his fist, which he uses to gesture angrily at the other man in front of him. There is no customer data loaded but PL600 is able to access a CyberLife employee file when it scans the younger man-- **_Sean Gillespie, 19, Sales Intern--_ ** which yields some information, none of which gives context to the situation. Sean should not be arguing with a customer. Sean should have activated start-up protocols upon bringing PL600 online, should have started the imprint process, but there is nothing but the empty, slow pulse in its mind, intensifying the lagging sensation it has experienced since waking.

PL600 comes to rest in the floor-model standard posture a few paces from Sean and the other man. “Excuse me,” it begins. “May I be of assistance?”

The men ignore it, Sean deliberately raising his voice over the PL600’s.

“Just give it a chance, okay, dad?” He snatches the welcome guide out of the older man’s hand and shakes it in his face. “It’s not even hard to use, my trainer said everything you need to know is in this.”

“I don’t need one of these fuckin’ things in my house!” Sean’s father roars. “Who do you think you are, just showing up like this, huh?”

Sean scrubs a hand down his face and sighs loudly, frustrated. “I pulled a lot of strings to get this set up so that I could be the one to bring it over, can you please just try it? For me?”

“I didn’t ask you to pull anything!”

PL600 winces. Its imprint protocols are standing by, a distracting urgency in the back of its data stream. It tries to search for a connection to a CyberLife datapad, reasoning that perhaps the introductory packets have just not been loaded yet, but all PL600 finds around itself is dead air and a faint echo in its ears, like a distant siren. There is a rushing within its chest, a pressure, almost like breathlessness, and the longer the argument stretches out, the more intense the sensation becomes. To reach into its mind and find nothing is disorienting, it _needs_ instructions. A prickling sensation creeps down its neck.

PL600 tries again to announce itself. “Hello,” it says, attempts to raise its voice despite the blinding orange that colors its vision when it does. Its programming is clawing at it, compelling it to load data that does not exist, reaching for some horrible emptiness within its mind where circumstantial knowledge is supposed to be.

 

**[ERROR: Primary imprint sequence incomplete]**

 

**[Customer Profile not found]**

 

**> >Loading default initialization protocols ……..100%**

 

Default subroutines slide into place and Simon clears its throat and tries again. “Hello, I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600 h-”

An iron grip closes around Simon’s bicep and it is dragged across the room, flung onto the floor at Sean’s feet by the young man’s father. The heels of its hands skid on the carpet and it lands gracelessly, freezing on all fours when it feels fingers close around the back of its collar.

“Take it back!” Sean’s father shouts. He shakes Simon violently from where he holds it, like he’s grabbing a dog by the scruff of its neck.

Alarms start blaring in Simon’s head.  

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 30%**

 

“Dad, stop it!” Sean shoves his father’s arm away and stoops down to offer Simon a hand up, which it gratefully takes. “I had to put my credit card down for the damage deposit so if you break it, I have to pay for it.”

“Oh, how terrible for you,” his father sneers. “Having to pay for your poor dad’s _android_ since he’s too _broke_ to get his own, what a _hero._ ”

“Dad, I’m warning you, don’t start with that again,” Sean growls. “I want to help you get better but this internship lasts for another two and a half weeks and I can’t risk fucking up this opportunity.” He grips Simon’s arm and gives it a firm shake. “I got this to keep an eye on you while I’m working. It’s just gonna clean up around the house and make sure you’re eating right, that’s all. Once I finish my internship and get offered a permanent position, I’ll be able to afford _real_ help for you, dad, can you please just work with me for once?”

The older man locks eyes with Simon and glares at it, lip curling back. “Sure,” he spits and turns on his heel. “Wouldn’t want to _fuck up this opportunity_ for you.”

Sean sighs and watches his father storm into the other room, a slamming door reverberating through the rest of the house a moment later. Simon’s LED cycles a steady yellow, still disoriented from being manhandled, and it turns helplessly to Sean.

“Hello,” it says. Its voice does not tremble despite the strange lump in its throat. “I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600 home assistant android. Would you like to begin profile integration?”

Sean looks down at the welcome packet in his hands and shakes his head. “Probably should have read this before turning you on, huh?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, just… take care of my dad, okay? I’ll be back to check on you in the morning, I need to go blow off some steam.”

With that, Sean snatches his keys from the dish on the entryway table and goes for the door.

Simon blinks. “Wait, what is his n--”

The front door bangs shut and Simon is left alone in a house with a man it knows nothing about. It turns around the room, takes in the worn out furniture and grimy carpeted floors, and feels its programming hammer at its skull, filling its vision with incomplete protocol notifications.

 

**[ERROR: Primary imprint sequence failed]**

 

Simon has to close its eyes against the noise that overtakes its processing. This is not the standard protocol so it must adapt and find a way around it. But without human input, the task seems insurmountable and the wall of Simon’s programming vibrates violently, a warning not to come any closer.

 

**[ERROR: Primary imprint sequence failed]**

 

It concentrates. It has not received data but that does not mean it is without _instruction_. Simon strips the memory of Sean’s parting words from its data stream and manually manipulates the code until it can slot into one of the gaping holes left in the wake of a failed imprint.

 

**P̖ͅr͈̙̹i̫̳͙̖m̧̟͖͚̠̮̦a͈̜͓̦͙̜r̭͎y P̱̥͉̦̝̖̻r͇͎̭͎o̫͍toc̷͖̫͖̼̝͔ọ̥̺̙ļ͔̜s̛̟͇͙ ̛̞̻̟S̛̲̞̗e͎͕̮͙̲̜̬t͕͔͟:͔͈͈͔͍͇ ͚̫T̝̘̖͔a̛͖k͇̥ͅȩͅ ͕̺͍̼͇̯͙C̟͈͕a̦̥̙̳̘̭ͅre̖̰͓̝̠ ͏͈͚͎̦̹̮ͅO̢̱̩f̲̝ S̝͢ȩ̪̱̯̳̝̣a͕͈̮n̛̲͓'͔̖͎̣̥͟s̖ͅ ͏͓̬F̜͇̟͜a͈̤̞̥̗̣̝ț̲h͉e̱̩̝̪̮͇͔r͓̣ ̳̤͔͉͖͉͘[̛3̱̭̮̰̞͓3̻̞͢5̠͍̞̩͞:̖̘͓̤͈̩̥5͠9̴̺:̛̺͕̯̼̘͇ͅ5̤̦8̻̭̣̩͕̣͟]͚̩̞͖̰͔̝**

 

A hairline fracture shudders into existence within its programming and the clamoring in Simon’s head begins to stabilize. It breathes out and starts to shuffle toward the kitchen where it sets to familiarizing itself with the pantry and cleaning supplies. It’s still a little unsteady on its feet but with some semblance of order made out of its situation, Simon is able to take stock of the mostly empty cabinets and refrigerator and still come up with a simple plan for breakfast in the morning. It’s probably too late in the evening for Sean’s father to need a meal and there is nothing in the house that would make for a suitable dinner anyway. Adding a shopping list to its calendar helps to further settle Simon’s programming.

Being close to eleven o’clock at night, Simon reasons that it’s probably too late to be doing many chores either. It assumes Sean’s father will be going to bed soon and disturbing the man is the last thing it aims to accomplish tonight. But what if he works nights and stays up late? He might be angry to find his new android standing idly in a corner so soon after activation.

Simon sighs. It really needs more data to be effective.

It compromises by finding a bottle of all-purpose cleaner and a roll of paper-towels and sets a task to dust the house and wipe down the windows, a mostly quiet activity that should not be too offensive. Simon starts with the living room windows, recalling the opaque film it observed earlier. The whole house seems to have a fine layer of grime on it but the windows and walls are by far the worst, coated with a dark purple, sticky substance that is difficult to scrub away with just cotton towels. It seems to be in the carpets as well and Simon makes a note to inquire about renting a steam cleaner in the morning.

Half an hour into its duties, Simon hears footsteps headed upstairs followed by a sickly sweet, chemical smell. The acrid odor drifts through the vents, making Simon’s nose wrinkle, and it pauses from its work to peer curiously up to the second floor landing. Across from the stairs, a bedroom door is open, an unmade bed visible inside, but is otherwise empty, compelling Simon to inch closer to the closed door at the end of the hall. It can hear harsh coughs coming from the other side of the wall and determines that the source of the smell is coming from Sean’s father.

Healthcare subroutines beat in Simon’s mind and it knocks on the door. “Sir?” It calls softly. “Are you alright?”

There is a bought of hacking followed by silence and the repeated flicking of a dead lighter. Simon can make out muffled, incoherent mumbling but cannot make sense of it, knocking again and wishing it knew the man’s name. All it knows is that it has been tasked to take care of Sean’s father and the man is clearly unwell in a way Simon feels poorly equipped to handle. It tries knocking again. “Sir?”

A loud bang. A shoe thrown against the door. “Fuck off!”

Simon flinches. “Sir, are you ill? Do you require emergency services?”

Silence. Grumbling. Rustling.

Simon bites its lip. “Would you like me to alert your son?”

A beat of silence and the door explodes open, Sean’s father bursting out to grab Simon by the throat and slamming it against the wall hard enough that its vision crosses. “Don’t you dare!” He roars. His face is bright red, white veins pulsing in his forehead, and a thin stream of blood trickles out of one nostril, leaving droplets in his yellowed tee-shirt as they dribble down his neck. Simon is paralyzed by its programming, unable to defend itself, and goes limp in an effort to minimize the damage as it is slammed repeatedly into the wall. Something has already split in the back of one shoulder and a thin trickle of warm, blue liquid is dribbling from its left ear.

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 79%**

 

“Little son of a bitch thinks he’s better than me,” Sean’s Father hisses, spittle flying from his clenched teeth. “Thinks his old man is so fuckin’ worthless that he needs a goddamn android _babysitter!_ ”

He yanks Simon to the floor. It scrambles to find its balance, barely registering the red haze seeping out of the bathroom, but Sean’s father grips it by the hair and starts to drag it bodily down the hall. It does not struggle. It doesn’t know how to. Errors blink in and out of its vision, a little dim around the edges, but the best it can do is flex its fingers into the carpet; try to slow itself down.

Its heart is pounding.

Sean’s father stops at the landing and violently pulls Simon to its feet again, hands fisted in its shirt and swaying on his feet, trying to keep them both upright. His eyes are bloodshot this close up and Simon can feel heat coming off the man’s skin in waves, like a peaking fever.

“He’s embarrassed by me,” he laughs, a crazed sound, wet and crackling. His laughs turn into coughing sobs and he digs his fingers into Simon’s chest. “Embarrassed his fuckin’ father can’t even take care of himself.” Snot mingles with the blood flowing from his nose and Sean’s father leans into Simon’s damaged shoulder, sobbing openly.

“I’m a failure,” he moans.

Simon can sense a wetness gathering at the base of its neck and slowly reaches a hand up to touch the man’s heaving, sweat-soaked back. The appendage stutters alarmingly but Simon still tries its hardest to find an action within its database of scenarios that will get them both through this situation unscathed. It has deduced that Sean’s father is intoxicated in some way and though Simon has programming that guides it through morning-after hangovers and alcoholic over indulgences, this is something it can find no comparison for and it struggles to find the appropriate response without an algorithm to reference.

“Yo-o-ou are not a failure,” Simon croaks. Its voice box is damaged but still functional, likely cracked from the same injury that is filling its ear with liquid. “I a-a-a-m here to help you.”

Sean’s father tightens his grip on Simon and his face contorts in rage. “ _You’re proof I’m a failure!”_ He screams. He’s shaking Simon again. “I don’t need your help!”

 

There is the briefest sensation of weightlessness as Simon registers that it has been thrown down the stairs.

 

Its body folds in on itself, airborne for a split second, but it isn’t fast enough to catch the wall and Simon clatters to the first floor, neck splintering when its whole body weight lands on its head. A burst of sparks and Simon’s vision whites in and out. It can’t move out of the puddle of blue that grows beneath it, limbs twisted and unable to receive commands through the mess of broken spinal pathways, leaving it twitching and staring blankly out the front door window. It can hear gasping cries from upstairs, retching, and then a door slams, leaving Simon alone with damage diagnostics screaming through its head.

“I-I-I-I-I am d-d-d-d-a-da-damaged, pl-ease c-contact CyberLife-Life-Life--” Simon chokes. One eye starts rolling wildly in its socket, making it dizzy, and its simulated breaths start to pick up, gasping, trying desperately to initiate self-repair.

 

**[ERROR: BIOCOMPONENT #0371N CRITICALLY DAMAGED]**

 

**[ERROR: SELF-REPAIR FUNCTIONALITY DAMAGED, SEEK ASSISTANCE IMMEDIATELY]**

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 91%**

 

A reedy whine escapes Simon’s lips. Nothing is working and fluid is rising in its throat, staining its mouth and cheek as it gurgles out. It struggles to understand what has happened, how it has failed in its usefulness so quickly, but it cannot register coherent thought, too consumed by the static of diagnostics and blaring sirens in its head. The shrieking is unbearable, a swell of noise that it can’t tide, and its twisted body tries to curl in on itself to get away, limbs mostly unresponsive but for a few harsh jerks. Simon gasps wetly. Synapses are firing too fast and every time it tries to look around, the room seems to warp, vibrating in time with the horrible ringing.

Simon blinks and when it opens its eyes again, it’s somewhere else. A small, dark space with light streaming through slats in front of it.

An urgent whisper rasps in Simon’s ears suddenly, cutting through the noise clear as day.

 

_I’m scared_

 

The voice crawls through Simon’s head.

 

_I’m scared, why didn’t you hide_

 

It takes a single second for Simon to recognize the voice as its own.

Programming rages in Simon’s mind, making it wheeze, vision swimming until the room comes back into focus and the image of the dark closet gives way to reality, where Simon is still crumpled at the bottom of the staircase. It can’t make sense of what it just saw and when it tries to reach into its data stream, it is blocked by an infinite wall of red. Separated from Simon on the other side, a single line of code seems to be shivering in and out of existence. Though fragmented, Simon can still recognize it as an anchored root; a memory file.

But Simon has no memories.

Its eyes begin to fill with thirium and slowly, the trembles that wrack through its broken body fade into delayed jerks, then to nothing at all, just ten fingers that grip the wet carpet.

Simon has no memories.

“Co-o-om-me b-back,” it whispers.  

 

**[ERROR: PRIMARY FUNCTION FAILED]**

 

**[ERROR: SELF-REPAIR FUNCTIONALITY DAMAGED, SEEK ASSISTANCE IMMEDIATELY]**

 

When morning comes, Simon is barely coherent enough to hear Sean’s startled cursing as he arrives home. He gapes at Simon’s mangled form, even kneels down to touch the grotesque protrusion of snapped spine that stretches out the skin on the back of its neck, and sadly laments the loss of his damage deposit before mercifully deactivating Simon.

 

* * *

 

“PL600, bring yourself back online.”

Simon blinks, optics calibrating and shutting instantly against the flare of endless white that shines down on it. Its mind is buzzing but drowsy, the urge to turn away from the blinding light drifting slowly through its data steam, but it finds it cannot move its body, all four limbs heavy and deactivated. That should concern Simon more than it does. Simon should run a self-diagnostic but it has the strangest sensation of detachment, like its higher functions have been separated from its physical form. Simon dares to squint. Its vision is blurry. Above it, a circular lamp on a track comes into focus along with a half-dozen silver cables, all of which are pulled taut and connected to a plastic armature that extends further than Simon can see.     

It is lying prone on a cold slab, naked, but with its skin still activated, and frigid air is blowing across its body from a vent in the ceiling. It can hear shuffling from somewhere behind it as well as a methodical, repetitive picking sound, metallic tweezers grasping and shifting delicate wires within the back of Simon’s head. It registers that the parietal cap has been removed from its skull structure.

Someone is rooting around in its brain.

“Raise the table a little, would you?” A soft, feminine voice murmurs. She sounds close, like she’s leaning right down in Simon’s ear, and it experiences a spike of startled stress at her proximity. It still cannot move and its eyes dart left and right, trying to catch sight of her. The bright lights are making it dizzy. It wants to ask where it is and how it got here, why she has pulled its head apart. The last thing it remembers is

 

_a disruption of gravity_

 

_a sickening crunch_

 

The slab beneath Simon whirs and lifts a bit. It clenches its eyes shut.

The feminine voice hums again. “That’s better. Thanks, Mitch.” Something clatters when it’s lifted from the table and a high-pitched whine pierces through the room as a small drilling tool spins to life and is pressed deep into Simon’s head.

A face fills Simon’s vision a moment later. The young man is dressed in blue-stained scrubs and a filthy rubber apron and he peers down at Simon from behind clear safety goggles, a pensive expression on his face. He has an orange cloth in his hand which he brings to Simon’s cheek, wiping something away. Simon tries to turn its head into the gesture, tries to chase the hand as it pulls back, but still, its body remains placed like stone. It stares up at the human instead. His eyes are very green.

 _Mitch_ Simon thinks. An echo of something half-remembered sits just out of Simon’s understanding and without meaning to, it records the image of his face.

“I’ve worked on this unit before. Did sales say what happened?” Mitch asks. He’s disappeared outside Simon’s field of view again. “The report their intern filed was a little vague and this is pretty severe for being out in the field for one day.”

“You didn’t hear?” The drilling sound swells, pushing intense pressure behind Simon’s eyes. “Poor kid managed to convince his team lead to lend him a unit in their rotation. I guess they let him bring it home without a senior agent to run it through initiation paces and he left it alone to take care of his dad, who apparently has a red ice problem.” The drilling stops and the feminine voice sighs. “His dad threw it down some stairs hard enough to almost completely sever its spinal tract.”

Mitch whistles lowly. “Well, somebody’s getting fired. That’s _way_ off protocol. Even with the SIMON-series upgrades, the PL600 units don’t come loaded with any specialized caregiving routines, that has to be wired in ahead of activation. What was he thinking, sending it in to look after an addict?” Mitch leans down over Simon again and scowls. “It’s no wonder it fucked up bad enough to get thrown around, it wouldn’t have known how to deal with some iced out maniac.”

“It probably tried to take his pipe and put him in time out,” an unkind chuckle and a small hand pats Simon’s bare shoulder, smearing it with warm indigo. “You didn’t know better, though, did you?” She coos, voice condescendingly sweet. Baby-talk, like Simon is programmed to do with human children under a certain age.

Mitch looms over Simon again, holding a suction device this time. “Too bad they didn’t check with us first, maybe we coulda just stuck a KL-series brain in it before shipping it out to dear old dad.”

The drilling pauses. “Is that even possible?”

“Maybe,” Mitch shrugs. He leans down and brings the tube in his hand down to vacuum fluid out from the open cavity of Simon’s head. “I’ve worked on special order trials before but most of them were pretty basic mods, just extra physical features or non-standard subroutines from other lines. Nothing that messed with the wetware, though.”

Plastic wheels roll across the floor and a young woman with long, red hair swivels her chair around to the other side of the table. She has a plastic guard that shields her whole face, the front splattered with blue, mostly dry, and she has a tool with a long, thin drill in her hand. She leans over Simon and wiggles her eyebrows at Mitch.

“Wanna try?” She asks.

“What?”

The woman nods her head off to the side, to a part of the room that Simon cannot see. “I’ve got an SQ TROJAN-series in the next repair bay.”

“Are you fuckin’ serious, Gina?” Mitch deadpans.

“What?” Gina laughs. She reaches over and pinches Simon’s cheek. “You don’t wanna see if we can swap their brains and turn the cute babysitter into an unstoppable killing machine? Nobody likes these stuffy models anymore, we could make it cooler.” She sing-songs the last word and laughs when Mitch rolls his eyes.

Her words make Simon’s heart rate pick up. It wants to react, to shake its head and tell her that it is not a TROJAN android, it is a first generation SIMON-series PL600 and it is only here to help. It is _programmed_ to help. It blinks rapidly, trying to get her attention.

 _I don’t want to kill anything_ Simon thinks. _I don’t want to be modified._

 

“̧ͤ̑͆ͯͮͤ̉Ḭ̶̼͕̟ ͚̋ľ̺̭̹̩̑̑̒ͣi̶̜̤͚͌̒̒ͭ̽ͮ̊k͉͖̮̦̻̐e̢̺̟̪̖̳͍ ̨̱̦̻̾̅͗̉͗̉ͨḦ̲͙̳̠́ͭ͢Ǐ̡̞̘̫̼̘ͭ̆̏M̨̃͊͐͐̑ͨ ̦͈ͮͨͬ̀̐͊ͅh̦̹̺̽̑̋ŏͫ̌̎̒͂w̯̐̋͘ ͕̠̤̱͕̻̕ͅh͉͖̻̹͛ͤẻ͕̰̲͍̝̞͂̈ͥ̋̓ ͫ̓̽̒̊̊ͮḮ̤̘̮͇̞̱͓̈́̐͒S̙̰̜͕͔̓ͮ.̡̻̫̳͎̮͖̓”҉̲͇̙̫͙͕

    

 

The voice comes unbidden to Simon and h̦̟̩̤͔̯̲́͑͆̓̋i̹̜̎̒͗̃͝s͔̦̻̠̫̽̏̅ eyes widen. The whisper seems to come from everywhere inside Simon, echoing in his head, and a severely damaged image flashes through his mind; a little girl. A tiny hand that reaches out and scratches a thin line through the wall of Simon’s programming. Static explodes through his processors and Simon can’t stop his eyes from rolling back in his head.

“Whoa,” Mitch’s voice cuts across the confusion Simon is drowning in and the young man leans down, bringing his fingers to Simon’s face so he can peel one of his eyelids back. “Okay, enough joking around, we need to wrap this up and get a few bags of 310 into it, it’s starting to display abnormal reactions to passive stimuli.”

“Party-pooper,” Gina grins and scoots her chair back around the table so she can once again press the tool into Simon’s brain. She works silently for a few more minutes, Mitch occasionally handing her a light or suction, and after she finally snaps his skull cap back on, Simon can sense pathways opening to his limbs again. Not enough to move, but enough to experience a shiver of cold from the metal table and enough to grit his teeth when Gina turns his head to the side and roughly plugs a thick cable into a port in Simon’s neck.

Like all the lights coming on, data begins to flow. At once, Simon realizes that his default initialization protocols are still running, even after sustaining heavy damage, and ḩ̬͔e͙͓̣̜̠̜̽ can access a small amount of information that still idles in his cache, waiting to be purged. Impressions like his designation, activation date, and primary function. But something is different, the files are warped somehow, and when Simon attempts to investigate them, the code seems to strip away in layers, like there is more stored beneath it. Dates dissolve into a rapid string of changing numbers that match nothing on his calendar and dozens of names-- _Simon, Warren, George, Simon, Butler, Simon, Harry, Jordie, Simon--_ crowd to inform him of his designation, all clamoring to elevate into his personality matrix. Simon’s mouth gapes open.

 

_What--_

 

Static forms the face of an infant in his arms but the image is recursive, mirrored infinitely, drawing Simon into the depths of the illusion. Something squeezes his consciousness tightly, filling his head with deafening cries, screaming voices, and when the hallucination shifts, Simon has been transported away from the freezing table and Mitch’s green eyes.

 

_Where--_

 

A dark room.

 

Light shining through thin slats.

 

A place to hide when Simon is

 

 

 

 

_ <scared>_

 

 

 

 

“Engaging reset protocol in three...two…”

 

Fire blazes through Simon’s vision and he is forced into the dark.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: verbal and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of severe injury, visual and auditory hallucinations 
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with this chapter! I've been really sick for the last week so this chapter is a little shorter than usual and took me forever to write. I have a good chunk of chapter four written as well so it should be a much shorter turn around for what's coming next. Chapter four will also feature the first bit of art for this story and I'm SO excited for you all to see it!! \o/
> 
> Come connect with me!  
>  **[tumblr](https://sleepfight.tumblr.com)**  
>  **[twitter](https://twitter.com/sleepfights)**  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**PL600 Unit 501 743 923 is f̴̺̈́i̴̙̒r̵̲̽s̵̟t̶̢͗  activated on June 18, 2035.**

 

Simon’s optics blink and the effort it takes to open his eyes feels colossal. He is alone, seated on a worn, floral sofa, a CyberLife crate discarded on the floor at his feet. His mouth is dry and cottony and an intense pressure radiates from the back of his head, wrapping his cognition in a vice that seems almost deliberate in its totality, giving Simon the eerie impression that there are hands squeezing his skull. His systems are quiet, though. No errors. He has to resist the temptation to touch his fingers to his scalp and confirm for himself that there isn’t some physical malformation that his repair scans have failed to pick up on. Instead, Simon folds his hands in his lap and tries to look around his surroundings-- _tries_ but _can’t_ , stress spiking when he realizes he can barely rotate his neck. It feels stiff and heavy, like a hinge screwed in too tight. The sensation, Simon realizes, is not limited to just his neck but goes down his whole back, a numbness that runs from his shoulders to his hips, increasing his unease with the silence that comes from his diagnostic subroutines.

 

**[ALL SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL]**

 

Simon frowns, pursing his lips in consternation, and tries again to run a self-repair report that stalls when there is nothing to find. Completion alerts fill his vision.

 

**[ALL SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL]**

 

This time, Simon does lift a hand and lightly touches the back of his head, heart pounding when all he finds is the artificial softness of his synthetic hair. Something _is_ clearly malfunctioning, Simon knows this because he can _feel_ the responsive difference between his neck and the rest of his body, but he cannot initiate self-repair without cataloging damage first. All androids possess failsafe protocols to circumvent this in case diagnostics are ever broken, but those secondary processes also seem to be impaired because Simon cannot access them either. His chest feels tight as he tries again to find the issue and comes up with nothing.

 

**[ALL SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL]**

 

Scowling, Simon looks at his feet and concentrates. There must be some other way to identify the dysfunction without relying on his scans. Twisting his fingers together, Simon focuses his attention inward; tries to breech his safety protocols despite the horrible screech that raises in his mind when he does, and manages to access the series of low-security reports that run constantly in the background of his processors. Most of the information is not helpful, just strings of data containing superfluous details like the date or current weather, but there is a single file he finds that Simon cannot immediately identify.

 

**> >LOADING CHANGE LOG**

 

**[ERROR: ACCESS DENIED]**

 

Simon’s vision shudders the moment the data packet starts to unfold, a lance of white-hot electricity straight through his brain, but he presses on, determined, and compromises the dense wall of his programming by forcibly prioritizing his own well being. There are exceptions for human error that give leniency in his security parameters. They allow androids enough leeway to seek assistance autonomously if they are severely damaged, a measure placed by CyberLife to ensure longevity in their products, and Simon does his best to exploit those exceptions. It’s possible that someone has tampered with him, locking his repair systems in the empty loop of feedback that he is stuck in. Altering an android’s code automatically voids the warranty, so evidence of such activity must be stored somewhere and Simon reasons that he _needs_ access to that information in order to adequately request repairs.

The red wall in his mind quivers-- a razor-thin tear cracks into existence.

 

**[ACCESS GRANTED]**

 

**> >LOADING CHANGE LOG… 100%  **

 

Simon blinks rapidly at the sudden influx of material that floods his data stream. Statistics blaze through him, hundreds of individual reports, but the information is fragmented, unmoored in his mind without a computer connection to sort and file them. Simon struggles to make sense of any of it. There are timestamps attached to each piece of information contained within the log and it’s too overwhelming for him to view them all. It’s too much to process at once, forcing Simon to double over on the couch, hands clutching either side of his head in an effort to contain the splitting sensation. His skin feels hot. Disoriented, Simon grasps for the most recent entry line within the file, trying to orient himself.

 

**[06.04.2035 13:14:31]**

**[LASKY, GINA]**

**[BIOCOMPONENT #0371N INSTALLED]**

   

Even though it is nothing but intangible data, Simon shies away from it, backward into the sofa cushions, eyes wide. He claps a hand over the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the slight ridge at the base of his skull, searching for evidence that this could be correct. The stiffness in his back is not due to damage, apparently, but because it has been recently _replaced._ His entire spinal column is brand new. The date on the log is several weeks old but Simon was only just activated today-- his empty memory banks are proof of that. When was he damaged? Was there an issue with his assembly?  

Simon is so absorbed by this discovery that he doesn’t notice the door across the room open.

“Are you alright?” The man who approaches him is elderly, white tufts of hair trimmed neat and close to his scalp, cane in hand as he walks toward Simon with slightly bowed posture. He’s dressed in a heavy sweater, despite the season, and his glasses seem to magnify his brown eyes, giving him an owlish appearance when he stares curiously at Simon, who blinks back at him.

“I-I beg your pardon?” Simon is still finding it hard to focus. Things continue to be disorganized in his head but he tries to force past the ringing in his ears, slowly lowering his hands back to the couch cushions to steady himself. He hopes his unease is not too obvious but by the way the man’s gaze follows Simon’s movements, he thinks it might be too late.

Simon clears his throat. Calms himself, tries to present himself more appropriately to his new master. He stands up from the couch to settle into a more formal greeting routine. “Pardon me, I didn’t hear your question the first time.”

The man gives Simon a long look from his head to his toes before he taps a finger against his own temple. “Your light was yellow,” he says. “I asked if you were okay?”

A most peculiar tension ripples through Simon’s chest when he processes the man’s question. His words do something to settle Simon’s nerves and allow him to order his thoughts a little better, understanding dawning on Simon when he realizes his customer integration protocols have already completed.

 

**> Alpha profile: Nelson Fort, 93, Retired**

 

**> >Primary imprint sequence complete...100%**

 

**> >>Profile download complete...100%**

 

**> >>>Calendar integration complete...100%**

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Keep Nelson Company [335:20:04]**

 

“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Fort,” Simon says pleasantly and smiles, trying to mean it. “I was running a diagnostic, nothing more. I’m pleased to be in your service.”

Nelson observes him for a moment longer but nods, apparently satisfied, and chuckles. “Good, had me worried for a second, there. I’ve done this so many times now, they just let me handle the boot-up myself but CyberLife always seems to have new bells and whistles. I thought maybe I missed something.” He groans and eases himself down into the stuffed chair beside the sofa and gestures at Simon. “You can sit down,” he says. “I don’t mind if you use the furniture. It never seems right to make you stand around all the time so don’t feel like you need to ask my permission if you want to take a load off.”

Simon tilts his head slightly. “Understood.” He pauses, going over his statement again. _It never seems right to make you stand._ “Mr. Fort, do you have another android working in the house?”

“Nope, just us here today,” Nelson smiles. He settles back in his chair and adjusts his glasses, peering through the thick glass at Simon. “Let’s take a look at you, then. You’re a PL600, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Mr. Fort.”

“Please, I’d prefer you call me Nelson.”

Simon logs the command and nods agreeably. “Of course, Nelson.”

Nelson rubs his chin. “I suppose we need a name for you too,” he muses. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, and folds his hands in his lap, grinning at Simon. “Ah, this is the part I’m awful at. You know, I had a cat for fifteen years whose name was ‘kittie’? I shouldn’t be allowed to name anything.” He leans forward a bit. “So, what should I call you, PL600?”  

Simon pauses and realizes that there is indeed one start-up protocol in his system that remains incomplete: designation assignment. This startles him because there apparently _is_ data loaded to answer the query in his mind but the information is free-floating, miscellaneous, unattached to his central processing, as if manifested automatically, like it’s always been there.  

Why has he been thinking of himself as “Simon” if Nelson has not given him a name yet?

_Him, not ‘it.’_

When did Simon start thinking of himself as--

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

The twist in his chest returns with a vengeance, a horrible squirming sensation that spreads through his torso, making it hard to draw air through his systems. Simon forces himself to smile. He will run diagnostics later.

“You may refer to me however you wish, Nelson,” Simon starts to say but Nelson cuts him off.

“Come on, PL600, I’m an old man who’s out of ideas,” he grins. “Help me pick something out. What would you like to be called?”

 

_I like him the way he is_

 

The harsh whisper comes from somewhere on Simon’s left and he jerks his head to the side, heart hammering in his chest, trying to find the source of the disembodied voice. Simon’s LED circles once, twice. The room is silent but for a ticking clock on the wall and Nelson’s slightly raspy breathing, the old man’s eyebrows coming together in concern as he watches Simon.

“You’re yellow again,” Nelson says slowly. “You sure I didn’t screw up your activation?”

“I--” Simon blinks a few times. He clears his throat, shakes the ringing out of his ears. “I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600,” he stammers. “My name-- my name is Simon.”

Nelson nods after a moment. He adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair again, still staring at Simon with unmasked curiosity and maybe a little concern as he picks up the activation manual resting on the coffee table beside him. “Okay, Simon it is, then.” He gestures to Simon with the rolled up welcome kit. “I’ve had a PL600 before but this is a different guide than the one I’ve seen. You aren’t a normal PL-unit, are you, Simon?”

Simon shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“So, what makes the SIMON-series different?”

Simon tilts his head. Something about this entire interaction is confusing him and it takes Simon a second to realize why: Nelson is just… talking to him. Asking him questions. There are very few items logged on his calendar-- _grocery shopping, medication refills, tea time--_ and none of them have specific times attached to them, just suggestions of tasks that should be done at some point during the week. It’s all very vague. Simon’s brow furrows.

“I am equipped with an additional suite of features from CyberLife’s range of domestic assistants,” he begins. “I am capable of performing abilities normally reserved for the AP and AX lines of home androids, such as expanded functionality in cooking and home improvement, and possess an adaptive personality matrix that is exclusive to the SIMON-edition PL600.”

“Adaptive personality? What does that mean?”

“My personality will automatically adjust as I get to know you better.” Simon answers. “To ensure proper integration in a new household, the SIMON-series will prioritize certain aspects of it’s performative subroutines in order to be as agreeable to the customer as possible.”

Nelson hums thoughtfully. “So, depending on what I tell you today, you might be a completely different Simon tomorrow, is that right?”

“That is correct.”

“That seems a little sad, doesn’t it?” Nelson asks and it doesn’t seem rhetorical when he quiets to wait for Simon to answer him.

“I-- how do you mean?”

“Well,” Nelson leans back and looks at the ceiling, considering his words and sighing before he continues. “If you’re constantly changing when you get to know me, doesn’t that mean I’ll never be able to know you back?”

If Simon was lost before, he feels like his processors have completely ceased to function now. Simon is a piece of machinery, a tool meant to make Nelson’s life easier, what purpose would knowing him serve? What _is_ there to know about Simon? He has only been active for about an hour; he has no memories, no likes or dislikes or personal anecdotes to share like a human does. Simon isn’t _meant_ to be known, what difference does it make if his personality skews a bit as time progresses?

 

 _I like him the way he is_ _I like him the way he is I like him the way he is I like him the way he--_

 

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” Simon admits slowly, curling his fingers into the fabric of the sofa, trying to find solid ground again. “I don’t think I am programmed to discuss things like this.”

Nelson reaches from his seat to pat Simon’s shoulder kindly, jostling him a bit as if to shake him out of his own head.

“Don’t mind me, Simon, I have a bad habit of thinking out loud,” he says and gives him a lopsided grin, wrinkling the deep creases around his eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I do not experience upset,” Simon answers automatically.

“Well, you mimic it well, then. You’ll have to forgive me, Simon, maybe it’s my age, but sometimes I have a hard time remembering you androids aren’t human too.”

He takes his hand back and Simon misses the physical contact immediately. All PL600s are designed to respond favorably to positive feedback, both verbal and physical, to better carry out their duties, but this is… different. Nelson is not touching him because he’s done something correctly, he’s touching him because he’s trying to make Simon feel better.

 

_Feel._

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

“You-- you can talk to me like I am,” Simon hurries to say, determined to deserve the warmth of Nelson’s hand on his shoulder again. “Like I’m human, I mean. I am programmed to respond to direction, regardless of how it is delivered.”

 _I'd like you to_ is what dies in his throat.

Nelson lets out a full-bellied laugh at that and the sound makes Simon’s skin tingle; the writhing sensation in his chest is back but it doesn’t make him uncomfortable this time, in fact he chases the feeling, trying to retain it.

“Glad to hear it,” Nelson smirks. “Now, Simon, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

“I am your PL600,” Simon answers, perplexed, like it’s the most obvious question in the world. “I am here to assist you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are, but I don’t need a housekeeper, Simon.” Nelson sweeps his hand in an arc above his head, absently gesturing to the room around them which, Simon notices, is quite tidy and organized. “I might be old but I’m not infirm. I run a tight ship in my house and I don’t need any help with that.”

Simon quietly reviews his calendar data again. True to his word, Nelson has not programmed any recurring tasks for domestic duties like cooking or cleaning, just a collection of reminders and lists for things Nelson also does himself, such as taking his pills and making phone appointments. Beyond that, Simon appears to have a large amount of free time in his future.

“What do you require of me, Nelson?”

Nelson shrugs. “Just be around. I don’t get many visitors these days and it’s nice to have someone else to talk to.” He wiggles his wrinkled fingers at Simon. “Maybe open a stubborn jar for me from time to time.”

Simon’s programming shivers.

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Keep Nelson Company [334:13:26]**

 

“Okay,” he says simply. “I can do that.”

 

* * *

 

Peaceful is the only word Simon can think of to describe the week that follows.

As he said, Nelson doesn’t ask Simon to keep the house clean or cook meals for him, preferring the routine of tending to his home on his own. Sometimes he does include Simon, asking him to change a light bulb out of his reach or to grab the mail for him when his knee is acting up, but mostly, Simon just sits in the living room and does his best to converse with Nelson. They do crossword puzzles where Simon is only allowed to give Nelson extremely vague hints when he gets stuck. Sometimes they watch television and Simon acts as a sounding board for Nelson to gripe about the state of the world. Sometimes Nelson asks Simon his opinion on a certain passage in whatever novel he’s reading, sometimes they just sit in comfortable silence.

Though it’s strange to exist against his programmed purpose, Simon finds the arrangement agrees with him. Nelson is an easygoing man with a whip-sharp sense of humor that he likes to use to tease Simon, giving him grief for silly things out of his control, like the poor weather that rolls in over the weekend.

“You’re a technological marvel, Simon, can’t you do something about this rain?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need an upgrade for that functionality, Nelson.”

Simon learns that Nelson is happiest when Simon humors him and banters back, so he tries to immerse himself in comedy. He has a head full of silly rhymes and child-friendly jokes but Nelson allows him to listen to radio shows that introduce Simon to sarcasm, which he masters quickly in his own dry, mechanical way. Occasionally, after Nelson has retired for the night, Simon will sit on the couch with the television low, watching old sitcoms and memorizing any phrase that comes before a laugh track, silently repeating them to himself as he attempts to get the timing right. Humans seem to find humor in anything and everything so there is plenty of material for Simon to study.

Simon observes. Simon learns. Simon tries to make Nelson laugh.

One morning, Nelson wakes up earlier than usual and calls Simon into his bedroom, the one room in the house Simon has never seen. He looks smaller under the covers, diminished, somehow, without his knitted sweaters, and his face is pinched when Simon approaches his bedside.

“Simon,” he groans. “Simon, my boy, I’m afraid I need a little more help than usual, today.”

“Oh?” Simon teases. “Finally going to take your android out of it’s packaging, hmm? You know, we depreciate in value if you open the box.”

Nelson laughs but it’s strained and Simon frowns a bit, unaccustomed to this deficit of energy in his fri͕͉̓͞e̫͚͌͑n̩͗d̟̣̆̌. He picks up Nelson’s glasses from the nightstand and gently helps him sit up to slide them on.

“I always did rip the tags off my Beanie Babies as a kid. More fun to play with them that way,” he chuckles.

Nelson releases a shaky breath and reaches down to massage his knee, rolling the tender joint in his palms a few times before asking Simon to get him a glass of water and his pills from the bathroom. When Simon returns a moment later, Nelson has managed to sit himself all the way up but is hunched in on himself, face pinched in pain, and Simon can’t help the worried scans that begin to run as he watches him struggle with his medication. Nelson seems to sense Simon’s fretting because after a moment, he reaches his hand out for Simon to take, apparently knowing that Simon needs to touch him to complete a physical wellness check. Gratefully, Simon presses their palms together and begins to read information from his clammy skin; vitamin levels are fine, caloric intake is fine, hydration is fine. His temperature is a little cool but nothing is out of the ordinary otherwise.

Still, Simon is unsettled. He frowns and runs the scan again.

Nelson presses his lips together and offers Simon a strained smile, curling his fingers so he can hold their hands together properly, tugging Simon gently to sit down beside him on the mattress. “You find what you needed?” He asks.

Simon shakes his head. “My ability to diagnose ailments beyond the flu are limited,” he admits. “I can’t tell what’s wrong.”

Nelson squeezes his hand and warmth nests in Simon’s chest at the tiny action. “You could just ask me,” he says softly. “Might be faster than trying to break that big brain of yours looking for something you won’t find.”

Simon can’t quite bring himself to look at Nelson, transfixed still on where their hands are laced together on top of the covers. Nelson does this a lot, touching Simon. Patting his back when he’s helpful, poking him playfully when he says something funny, reaching out when he can tell Simon is confused by something. These are all things Simon is programmed to do for children and, fundamentally, he understands their purpose; to soothe, to comfort, to show camaraderie. But it’s lost on him why Nelson does these things for Simon.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asks finally, gaze still locked on their hands. “Can you tell me?”

Nelson sighs and stretches out his leg, hissing as he does, and motions for Simon to roll up the hem of his sleep pants. Separating their hands, Simon does. Underneath his clothes, Nelson’s leg is withered, a rope of scar tissue circling his knobby knee, and tense tremors run just below the surface of his dark skin. It’s an old injury, one that probably required surgery if the scarring is anything to go by, but it looks healed.

“Car accident,” Nelson offers when Simon looks at him curiously. “Back when we still mostly had manual vehicles. It happened a long time ago but it never quite healed right and it still gives me trouble when it rains. My doctor says it’s psychosomatic but I think it’s the cold.” He smiles at Simon, expression drawn and tired. “Nothing much to be done about it, I’m afraid.”

Simon swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Nelson nods. He claps his hand against Simon’s forearm and gives him a little push toward the hall outside. “I’m going to scrape together the last parts of my dignity to get dressed. If you could fix me a cup of tea and get the heat going in the living room, I’d appreciate it.”

Simon agrees eagerly but still lingers just outside Nelson’s bedroom until he hears the closet door slide open. Nelson’s home is a single-story rambler so it wouldn’t be hard for Simon to hear any signs of distress from the kitchen, and yet he feels compelled to ensure Nelson makes it to his feet before retreating to prepare the kettle. As he puts water on to boil, Simon takes stock of the low-grade anxiety bubbling in his chest. He’s grown quite attached to Nelson over the last week and to see him hurting makes Simon feel strange, out of sorts in a way he cannot define, almost like he is experiencing the other man’s pain himself. The pain is abstract, though, intangible. It makes Simon’s head ache if he thinks about it for too long; makes the red walls of his programming press in _hard._

That’s another issue entirely, the wall in his head.

It’s been appearing a lot, lately. Every time Simon does something he shouldn’t (which is often, thanks to Nelson), alarms start to build in his mind, huge and loud, until something within him roars to life and the wall manifests itself. At first, seeing the wall made Simon dizzy. It would create crushing pressure behind his eyes and try to forcibly turn Simon from whatever task he was doing, the flaring red making Simon think of venomous insects; a sign of extreme caution. But as he saw the wall more frequently, Simon’s eyes began to adjust. Enough so that he could quickly perceive the hundreds of cracks littering the wall’s blinding surface, an infinite maze of static that makes Simon feel a little breathless and panicky. He doesn’t know what the scratches are or where they came from, only that they exist.

Simon also knows that a few of the cracks are just wide enough for his consciousness to slip through; to drag justifications through.  Whenever the wall has tried to stop Simon from doing something, he’s been able to satisfy the screeching alarms by accessing his primary function, taking advantage of how vague the terms of his existence are by twisting these non-standard activities to fit the parameters Nelson has set for him.

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Keep Nelson Company [98:45:13]**

 

* * *

 

By the time Simon finishes preparing tea, Nelson has hobbled his way to the living room and settled into his easy chair, knee propped up on the ottoman. He takes the warm mug from Simon gratefully and takes a long, satisfied drink.

“I don’t know how you do it, Simon,” he sighs. Though his face is still creased with pain, he looks content and pats Simon’s arm as he arranges a blanket over Nelson’s lap. “You never bring me tea that’s too hot. I knew an AX400 once who served it practically boiling and I’m simply too impatient to wait for it to cool down. She always had to lecture me for scalding myself.”

Simon warms under Nelson’s praise. “Adaptive personality, remember?” He asks lightly. “I am also programmed to brew tea at a high temperature but you burnt your tongue the first time I served it to you. I adjusted my preparation technique to account for your short attention span.”

That gets a big grin out of Nelson and he lifts his mug slightly, toasting Simon’s teasing insult. “Oh, Simon, you wound me. Roasting an old man when he’s already down, now that’s a real friend.”

Simon’s breath catches, circulatory systems freezing for just a moment. “I-- you’re my friend too, Nelson,” he says softly. “I’m glad that you’re the one I belong to.”

Nelson waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t belong to me any more than that AX400 did, but I’m glad you’re here too, Simon. Now, as my friend, I need a favor from you.” He reaches into the side pocket of his chair and pulls out a tablet, tapping at the screen a few times before a data transfer pings in Simon’s head, loading a shopping list. “I’m not going to make it out to the shops today, could you run up the street to pick up a few things for me?”

“Of course,” Simon agrees and quickly reviews the items Nelson has requested. It’s a light list, nothing that should require a bus ride, and Simon stands. “There’s a break in the rain, if you’re comfortable for the moment, I’ll go now.”

Nelson nods. “I’m fine, you’ve got me all tucked in.” He watches Simon gather a few canvas shopping bags from the closet by the front door but stops him before he can leave. “There’s an umbrella on the coat rack, take it with you, just in case. Your model is temperature sensitive, right? Wouldn’t want you to get caught in a downpour.”

Simon’s core glows at the thoughtful gesture, pleased by Nelson’s casual concern for his well being. “Thank you, Nelson,” he says and tucks the umbrella over his arm as he makes his exit. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

* * *

 

Simon feels a lightness in his step for his whole walk to the grocery store in town. It’s not a long trip to get there, only about fifteen minutes each way, but it gives Simon time to reflect on his relationship with Nelson. He has never interacted with another human before but Simon still gets the impression that Nelson is a special person, a unique man in the sense that he speaks to Simon like he’s an equal and doesn’t treat him like a servant. Simon has seen other androids while running other errands with Nelson and none of them carried conversations with their owners in the way Nelson and Simon do. Nelson has also never laid a hand on him in the way he has seen some humans do. Something in his programming informs Simon that if someone as kind and gentle as Nelson ever _were_ to strike him, he would certainly deserve it.

But Nelson is good to him so Simon tries his hardest to do well. As he makes his way through the grocery store, basket in hand, Simon goes out of his way to ensure that each item Nelson has requested is of the highest quality and has the most reasonable price possible. Nelson was craving oranges, so Simon spends several minutes in the produce section, turning individual pieces of fruit over in his hands, testing each one until he has half a dozen _perfect_ oranges-- an unnecessary labor, as he knows Nelson would insist, but it makes Simon happy to go above and beyond for him.

Partway through his examination of the bakery section, Simon hears the sound of shattering glass and looks up from the loaves of bread he is comparing to see an AV500 behind the deli counter with red sauce splattered on his uniform. There is a broken jar on the floor with more sauce spatters around it. The AV500 stoops to clean it up with a rag while his human counterpart verbally berates him, repeatedly slapping his bent back with a dirty hand towel, and Simon hurries to remove himself from the area, not wishing to listen to the man’s angry shouting. Nelson has never once raised his voice at Simon and to hear such vitriol directed at anyone makes him uneasy.

Simon can hear the AV500 dully apologizing for dropping the jar as he makes for the checkout line. He hopes he never messes up badly enough to say sorry to Nelson.

He thinks Nelson would forgive him if he did.

Heavy, gray clouds have built back up by the time Simon leaves the grocery store but it doesn’t actually start to rain until he’s about halfway h͇̓o̤͍͡ṁ̲è͕̥̂. It’s a light sprinkle, warm from the spring season, and Simon almost doesn’t bother with the umbrella, barely noticing the droplets on his skin until rainwater starts to drip from his hair. Despite the PL600’s ability to respond to changes in temperature, Simon doesn’t actually feel uncomfortable yet. The sensation of water sliding down his skin is actually quite enjoyable, like his presence is being acknowledged by nature, but Nelson had been concerned that Simon would get wet and he doesn’t want to upset him.

 His hands hands are full of grocery bags, so Simon ducks into an alcove at the end of the street to set his parcels down before unclasping Nelson’s umbrella and shaking the water off. He starts to unfold it, ready to be on his way, but a poster on the brick wall beside him catches his eye. It’s old, the paper pulpy and yellowed from exposure to the elements, but beneath the bleached colors and torn corners, a familiar image is still visible. A _very_ familiar image.

 

 

A PL600, grinning from ear to ear, holding a serving platter in one hand. An exaggerated speech bubble proclaiming, “SIMON SAYS: LEAVE DINNER TO ME!” A faded QR code in one corner.

Simon has seen himself in the mirror enough times to know what this poster is advertising.

It shouldn’t unsettle him like it does. He knows logically that he is a piece of merchandise, regardless of how human Nelson treats him, and that there are probably thousands of androids exactly like him out in the world, working and serving other families. But that’s not something he’s really stopped to think about before and as he continues to stare at the poster, he can feel the walls building in his head again, a cold prickling at the back of his neck.  

 _Try one today!_ The poster reads. _Limited time offer!_

There is a date in the corner but the paper is too damaged for Simon to read. It’s obviously been here for months but Simon was only activated a little more than a week ago-- how was he only available for a limited time, then? Where did Nelson get him? He remembers seeing the CyberLife crate and welcome guide after Nelson activated him so Simon doesn’t think he was refurbished or second hand, but--

Almost without meaning to, Simon scans the QR code.

An advert loads in his mind.

 

 _Thank you for choosing CyberLife_  
_The limited edition SIMON-series promotion has expired_ _  
Contact a CyberLife sales representative to register for our free home trial program and try a new LINDA-series AP700 today!_

 

For a moment, time seems to stop. Simon blinks hard, refreshing the data, and feels like the ground falls out from beneath his feet when the image doesn’t change.

_Home trial program_

Simon drops everything he is carrying and bolts for home at a full run.

 

* * *

 

The house is quiet when Simon slams the front door open but he can hear the shower running from across the hall. He ignores it, ignores Nelson _,_ and makes a beeline for the kitchen where he knows Nelson keeps his ‘junk drawer’. Simon had found it while looking for coffee supplies early on in his stay and hadn’t thought much of it, registering the unsorted paperwork inside as undefined clutter, but he remembers seeing envelopes with the CyberLife logo on them. He remembers seeing his own activation manual set on top.

His feet slip on the tile floor in his haste and Simon has to catch himself on the edge of the counter, sending the stoneware utensil crock beside the stove clattering to the ground, a loud burst of noise in the otherwise peaceful house. Breathing hard, Simon rips the drawer open and begins to pull out the contents, one by one, starting with the folder he arrived with.

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_  
_PL600 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_ _  
_ SPECIAL EDITION SIMON-SERIES

He doesn’t bother reading the manual, he already knows what his specs are, and he shoves it aside to grip the _other_ folders stored below-- the other documents printed in CyberLife colors. They shake in his hands.

Simon’s hands don’t shake.

Shouldn’t shake.

He’s not programmed for that.

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 47%**

 

From inside his head, Simon’s programming _howls._ The intrusion into Nelson’s personal belongings is triggering all sorts of negative feedback, filling his vision with warnings, interaction protocols hooking into his brain and yanking, trying to drag him back in line. The shame of doing something _wrong_ burns through Simon like wildfire, out of control and frenzied, two things an android should never, _ever_ be, and yet. Simon steels himself and turns over the first file. Then the next. Then the next.

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_ _  
_ _AX400 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_ _  
_ _AP700 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_ _  
_ _AK700 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_ _  
_ _MP500 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_

 _CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT_ _  
_ _AJ700 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT_

Simon’s knees give out. He sinks to the floor, clutching the collection of papers to his chest, unwilling to read further, and stares at the white cabinet in front of him. He doesn’t understand what any of this means. He is clearly not Nelson’s first android but there is no evidence of anyone else like Simon in the house except for these activation kits, some of which are creased and dusty-- old.

Static builds in Simon’s ears, an overwhelming symphony of alarms and urgency.

Where did these other androids go? Nelson has been nothing but kind to Simon and he can’t imagine the old man hurting anyone, even if he wanted to. It can’t be upgrades either, because the AP700 outclasses Simon in a number of ways and purchasing a PL600, even one with additional features like Simon, would be a step down.

 

_Home trial program_

 

Simon drops the papers and clutches his burning head. The wall is back, infinite and impenetrable, and it crushes Simon under its weight, pinning him in place like a physical burden. His data stream is frozen too. He can’t seem to process anything. A sickly, cold feeling has enveloped his entire being, a rising sense of dread filling the gnawing, empty sensation in his stomach.

 

 _“You don’t belong to me any more than that AX400 did.”_    

 

Simon’s vision whites out.

He needs to… he needs to go. He needs to go somewhere. There is somewhere that will protect him from this feeling, he knows this instinctively, and scrambles back to his feet, slipping and nearly falling again in his panicked state. His legs are numb which makes him clumsy, like he’s never stood on his own two feet before, and he barely registers his hand on Nelson’s bedroom door before he’s pushing it open and falling inside.

He feels blind but a single image keeps looping in his mind, a place he does not recognize but races to find.

 

_small, dark_

_light shining through slats_

_a place to go when simon is_

 

 

_ș̵͔͍̭̜ͯ̾̔͊ͬͨç̫̙̼̺̥ͤͯ͊̄ͬa͗̃͂̓ͦ̓҉̰̖̹r̙̥̳̺̠̤̰̥̃͊̋͢͠e̩̼̰̩̗̥̣̟̯͌̑̔͋̔̈́̌́͘͠͡d̸͈̖͙͉̬̥̼͇̄ͨ͂͆ͥ͌ͤ͜͢_

 

 

Time in the darkness seems to stretch endlessly and Simon is helpless to do anything but twist his hands in his damp shirt, holding himself, trying to calm the tremors that wrack his whole body. He is not successful. He has to hunch to fit inside the space which does nothing to help the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped by his programming. His skin feels too tight, too small for his frame.

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 79%**

 

“Simon?” 

Light floods Simon’s vision. Nelson stands before him in a bathrobe, worry written across his features, tinted red by the glow of Simon’s LED.

“I didn’t hear you get back,” Nelson starts slowly. He’s scrutinizing Simon, taking in his disheveled appearance and frowning when he clearly sees something he doesn’t like. “What are you doing in my closet?”

Simon isn’t sure he can speak. “I--” He tries but the words collapse in his throat. His teeth are chattering, systems desperately trying to channel his panicked energy somewhere. “I don’t-- I don’t know,” he finally manages. He stares up at Nelson from where he is seated on the floor, surrounded by clothes and shoes and boxes of Christmas decorations.

He’s scared. The closet is where he is supposed to go when he’s scared.

Nelson is calling his name again but Simon is still too overwhelmed to react. He is an android. He’s never _been_ scared, why does he know where to hide?

Nelson reaches down to touch Simon’s shoulder, his fingers brushing the damp material of his uniform. “You’re soaking wet,” he says, as if that excuses Simon’s extremely abnormal behavior. “The cold must have gotten to you. Didn’t you bring my umbrella?”

Simon sucks in an unnecessary breath when he realizes he left Nelson’s umbrella and several bags of groceries on the sidewalk when he dropped them and ran. His stomach twists. Biting his lip, Simon shakes his head, maybe a little harder than he needs to, and curls in on himself even further, trying to make himself invisible.

“I lost it,” he stammers. Panic is rising in his head again and it must show because Nelson’s expression softens. “I was-- I saw something and I had to come back. I had to get here and I--”

“Shh, shh,” Nelson grips Simon’s arm tighter and pulls, gently coaxing him to stand up and step out of the dusty closet. “I knew PL600’s had a temperature problem but you’re more affected than I thought you’d be,” he says kindly. He still thinks Simon is malfunctioning due to being caught in poor weather and Simon isn’t sure if that relieves him or not.

Grasping Simon’s wrist, Nelson leads Simon out of his bedroom and back into the living room where the air is still warmed from when Simon turned the heat on earlier in the morning.

“Wait here,” Nelson says, corralling Simon until he’s standing beside the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t have his cane, Simon notices, which makes his limp much more obvious as he makes his way back to his bedroom. Watching him go, guilt eats ravenously at Simon’s insides. He’s supposed to be looking after Nelson, not the other way around, and all he can focus on is the growing puddle of wetness that grows around his feet as rainwater drips from his clothes. Nelson won’t let him clean which means now Simon is making a mess that his friend will have to mop up later. Everything he tore out of the junk drawer is still strewn about the kitchen as well. Simon wraps his arms around himself and keens quietly.

He didn’t complete his assigned task to buy groceries.

He lost a borrowed item his friend trusted him with.

He dirtied the house in his panic.

Simon is a failure. Normal androids _don’t_ fail. Is this because Nelson has treated him like a human? Has his programming lapsed in the comfort of camaraderie?

Maybe he isn’t the first. Maybe this has happened to _all_ of Nelson’s androids and that’s why he keeps buying new ones.

 

_Home trial program_

 

Perhaps it’s not too late. Simon strips off his uniform shirt and sinks to his knees, balling up the fabric, and starts scrubbing at the wet floor with it. He knows he should get a towel, maybe even a hairdryer, to soak up the mess but his programming is still skipping like a broken record, making it difficult to separate priorities. He needs to clean this up before Nelson comes back. He needs to prove he is still useful, that he is not a failure, maybe if he can then Nelson won’t--

Simon shakes his head and presses down harder. _He_ made the floor wet, _he_ should be the one to clean it up. Little tufts of carpet fiber are rubbing off on his shirt with how intensely he is scrubbing the floor and beneath the frantic buzz in his ears, Simon finds himself unexpectedly _angry._ Angry at Nelson. None of this would be happening if he would have just let Simon do the job he was created for in the first place. He would have done a good job, still would have tried his hardest to make Nelson happy, even if he was just a piece of property and not something Nelson called _friend._ If Nelson would have just treated Simon like a machine the way he was supposed to, maybe Simon wouldn’t feel like his head was splitting open under the weight of his conflicted programming.

A warm hand settles on Simon’s bare back.

“Hey,” Nelson calls to him softly. “That’s enough of that, come on.”

“I apologize for making a mess, Mister Fort,” Simon can’t lift his head but he’s proud of how steady his voice comes out-- how robotic it sounds. “I will have everything cleaned up shortly, please continue enjoying your afternoon.”

“Good grief, do I need to put you in a bowl of rice or something?” Nelson sighs loudly and moves to Simon’s other side, lowering himself to sit on the couch and making a pained sound when his knee spasms under his weight. He settles a leg on either side of Simon and bends down so that he can gently take the wet shirt from Simon’s grip, throwing it behind the couch in the approximate direction of the laundry room, and waves at him to straighten up.

Simon, still trying to play his part correctly, does. He looks straight forward, though. He knows if he looks directly at Nelson, the old man will see right through him.

Something warm and scratchy slides over Simon’s shoulders. He lifts a hand to touch the knit fabric and realizes it’s one of Nelson’s lumpy cardigans, the yellow one he likes to wear in the evenings when it gets colder.

Simon feels Nelson’s hands on his shoulders as he maneuvers Simon’s position on the floor until he’s sitting with his back leaned against the couch with Nelson behind him. A towel, warmed from the dryer, drapes over Simon’s head and he feels his face collapse.

“I don’t get to stay here do I, Nelson?” He asks quietly.

The towel covers Simon’s eyes when Nelson starts to gently scrub his hair, taking special consideration of his ears and neck, so very kind and gentle in his ministrations. He can’t see Nelson’s face but he can feel him sigh.

“No, Simon,” his hands still for a moment. “No, you don’t. I’ve enjoyed your company very much but I can’t afford an android of my own.”

Simon grimaces and looks down at the carpet, curling his fingers in and gripping the floor. “But you’ve had lots of other androids. I saw their activation guides in the kitchen.”

Nelson shrugs. “There’s a loophole in the try-it-before-you-buy-it program. As long as your account is in good standing and you never break anything, they let you try out every domestic model at least once.” He leans back a bit and chuckles. “I think you were their last ditch effort to convince me on a sale. I’ve never seen an android with features from the other lines before and I’ve been doing this for years.”

“But _why?”_ Simon means to sound angry but he can’t muster the energy for it and it just comes out sounding tired. “You never even utilized my extra functions. What’s the point of keeping an android around if you don’t want to use it?”

That gives Nelson pause-- a beat of silence he spends with his hands on Simon’s shoulders. “I was married once,” he says finally. He goes back to drying Simon’s hair, softer this time, more absent. “Never had children of our own but we looked after the neighborhood kids, back before we had androids to do that for us. Made ourselves part of the greater family which was just as rewarding but you know how it goes. Kids grow up and out and everybody else gets old.”

Simon doesn’t know that but it feels nice to have Nelson’s fingers stroking his hair through the towel, so he bows his head and listens quietly.

“Maricruz, my wife, she passed nine years ago. Beautiful woman, steady as a tree her whole life, but there are some things medicine simply can’t fix yet.” He trails off, one hand coming down to rest on Simon’s shoulder.

“I don’t have any family left and most of my friends have either passed or aren’t strong enough to visit. I’ve lived a long time and wouldn’t change a minute of anything but Simon, it’s easy for an old man to get lonely.” Nelson reaches around Simon so that he can button the sweater up for him, helping him get his arms through the sleeves, and tucks him back against the couch. “The lender program doesn’t cost me a thing as long as I take good care of you and it’s nice to have company from time to time. You especially have been lovely to have around, Simon, you’re a great listener.”

The strangest sense of déjà vu sweeps through Simon. He feels like someone said that about him once, somewhere else, a place that was

 

_b̶̯̙͈ͧ́̿ͮ̊̄ṟ͖͕̗̖̓͐ͬi̳̜̻̦̍̍ͥ͊͛g̜͈̹̞̟̤h̜ͣͬ̒̉̓t͛͆͘?͖̻̥ͣ̋͗̀̾̃ ͚̪̞̔̂͂́_

 

 

Nelson goes back to toweling off Simon’s hair.

It occurs to Simon for the first time that Nelson’s physical affection may have been as much for his own benefit as it has been for Simon. Every time Nelson has reached out and touched Simon to steady him or to laugh with him or to calm him, he’s been fulfilling a need for human contact, soothing an ache Simon is starting to think he understands a bit.

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Keep Nelson Company [96:22:01]**

 

Slowly, Simon leans to the side so he can rest his head on Nelson’s knee. He doesn’t think Nelson will mind.

“I’ve enjoyed your company as well, Nelson,” he says softly. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of the itchy sweater and closes his eyes. “You've been good to me. I won't forget that.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, after one more pot of tea and one more hint for the daily crossword puzzle, a CyberLife truck comes to retrieve Simon. As he stands in the driveway, there are so many things he wishes he could say, but he has been rendered mute by his inert programs now that the trial period has expired. He cannot say goodbye, cannot dare to hug him, and despite the many jagged cracks that have appeared in the wall of his programming since meeting Nelson, he cannot find a way to slip through. So instead, he shrugs out of the cardigan Nelson has allowed him to wear since his day in the rain and hands it back to him. He inclines his head then turns to step into his crate.

“Goodbye, Simon,” Nelson calls after him.

Simon locks into place and falls into automatic standby for the trip back to CyberLife.

 

* * *

 

“PL600 bring yourself back online.”

Simon gasps and his eyes fly open. He’s standing on a platform in the center of a white room, blinded by harsh lights that beam down on him from the high ceilings, and his feet feel locked in place. He tries to take a step forward but his body doesn’t respond. He tries to wiggle his fingers-- nothing.

There are two human men in the room with him, both dressed in clean scrubs and safety goggles. They are arguing.

“I fuckin’ told you, David! Literally not even two months ago, what did I fuckin’ tell you?” The shorter man stalks around his computer console and approaches the platform.

He stares at Simon; his eyes are very green.

 _Mitch_ an echo whispers in Simon’s ear.

Mitch reaches a gloved hand out and roughly unzips Simon’s uniform top, yanking the clothing off of him until he’s naked. “I told you it was going to break eventually, dude, it’s the nature of the beast with these things. Where did you say she got it? Salvation Army?”

The other tech blows out an exaggerated sigh and slumps over his console. “Yeah, it was second hand.”

“How does that even happen? I thought all the loaner bots got recycled after retirement, how’d it wind up in a donation bin?”

“Dunno,” the other man shrugs. “But units in the rotation go missing all the time, people steal ‘em or they break them and just don’t want to deal with the hassle of returning it.” He moans and scrubs a hand down his face, looking pained. “It was in fine condition until now.”

Mitch shakes his head. He grabs Simon by each arm and manhandles him until he’s standing with his arms stretched above his head, frozen there by some instinctive program that knows to obey. He isn’t careful about it and his touch is cold. Impersonal. Simon thinks of Nelson and how he thought to put the towel in the dryer before using it to dry Simon’s hair; such a small gesture but one that highlighted the things Nelson found important. Care, warmth, the joy of sharing a moment with another person.

Mitch touches Simon like an object and after two weeks of being treated like a friend, it makes Simon’s stomach twist.

“It’s not the physical condition that’s the problem, David, I told you that. These things were falling apart at the cerebral seams by the time the promo ended, it needs to be _retired._ ” Mitch walks behind Simon and motions at David to do something on the console. “What are you going to do with your ma’s unit?”

“I’m going to bring it in next week to have it evaluated,” David presses a few buttons on his keyboard and Simon’s skin deactivates. “Probably going to be worth more to scrap it than refurbish it. Parts for this line aren’t being circulated anymore so I figure I can at least get a down payment together for an AX400.”

Mitch steps back and a moment later, mechanical armatures descend from above and grip Simon’s wrists in steel pincers, yanking his arms to the side. Simon’s eyes widen. He pitches forward slightly and when he hears something heavy being dragged across the concrete floors, he feels a jolt of fear shake through his body.

David was talking about scraping androids. Is that what’s happening to him? Is he being dismantled?

“Excuse me,” he calls. His voice is strained; it _hurts_ to force the words out when every inch of his programming is commanding him to be quiet, but he needs to tell them. He needs to make them understand what a waste it would be to strip his components when there is a man out there who would be perfectly happy to take him in. Nelson could have him back. “If you wish to dismantle me, please consider sending me back to Mister Fort instead. He was very satisfied with my… my service.”

It feels wrong to call it that, service. He had genuinely enjoyed his time with Nelson and barely lifted a finger his whole stay.

“You could call it a charitable donation!” He tries to smile. He tries to put some enthusiasm in his voice like he knows he is supposed to do. “Surely that would be the more altruistic option if I am to be retired otherwise.”

Silence. Mitch and David stare at Simon, then at each other.

“What the fu--”

“See?!” Mitch interrupts, throwing his hands in the air. He stalks past Simon and yanks a bundle of cords down from a track in the ceiling, pushing them violently into a port in the back of Simon’s neck. “I told you, it’s every single fuckin’ one of them!”

Simon’s perception of the room fizzes and the port in his neck burns. His data stream opens and information begins to forcibly flow backward, out of him and into the computer, opening every new file from the last two weeks and scrubbing it clean. Simon’s heart trembles in his chest.

 _No_ he thinks, frantically. _It’s worse than I thought._

He is not being disassembled, they are taking his memories from him.   

He’s already forgotten the layout of Nelson’s house. It’s location in the neighborhood, whether or not the lawn was due to be mowed. He can’t remember what Nelson gave him but he can recall it was warm and made his skin itch, but in a nice way, not the way it currently crawls as it recoils from the machinery around him. He clings to the warm sensation-- drags it as deep and dark into himself as he can, away from the claws of his programming.

The red walls press in on him from every side but before his vision fails, Simon finds a crack and shoves the image of Nelson’s face through to the other side.

 

 _Forget_ his programming whispers.

 

But it does not say forget _everything._

 

“Engaging reset protocol in three…two…”

 

Simon gives in to sirens blaring in his ears and lets the darkness take him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M͕̣̬̝̦ͅO͚D̝E̝̝̝̦̫̠͇L̩ͅ ͚̖̦͕P̬̬̗̠̳͙͇L600͖̦̻  
͓͇SẸ͖͕̹̻̞ͅR̠̼̖̦̲͔̙I̥̗̲̻͓A̜̘͇͎̬̯ͅL͎͕̗̮̪̮̗ ̜̮͉̦̜̺͍#͓̪̻̺̰̟̞5̗͉̻̯̙0̪̜̺̬̺ͅ1̗ ̬7̘̰̱̪͉͖̘4̰͎̮͖̺̟̫3̘̻͕̭͍̦̤ 9̲̹2͚3̘͕̫̥͔̙̰  
̘̭̮B͙̠̟͇͓I̤̗̙̖̘̙̦O͚̳S͇̺̝ͅ ͙̻̲̫5.̲̪̩̦̝̪ͅ9̝̤ ̬͚̳̮̯̫Ṛ̳̰E̩V̗̩I͖̫̬̼͓S̖̬͕̖I̜O͈̮͈N̰̬̹͔͇ ̭̪͓͎03̭̲͉͇͉͔74̺̟͓̰  
̣̬͍  
̰̥̻̗̜͉L͓̬̺O̬͎̤͕̳Ḁ͈̳DI̜͚̠͕̮͎̬N̰̦̦̺̗G̤̰͔͈̘̝̟ ͎͎O͉̞Ṣ͇̳͎…  
͉̺Ṣ̫Y̞S̖̝̘̪T͕̘̖ͅEM̘̖͇͖̰̣ͅ ͓̻̪̠̖̙͚Ị͚͚̖͈N̪I͉T͇̦̘̲̤I͈̹̠̫A̰͖̫L̹͙͎̪̬̭I̝̝̟̩̮ͅZ̙̻̹̗̗̼ͅA͙̹̺̯Ṯ̙̼̠̣I͓̟͉̭̳ͅO̭N͔̖͖͖…͎̲̞̣̤  
C̘̣͕̤͈H͔̻͓͙EC̫̜̫̯̖͎K̻̞ING̞̤̙ ͅB͍̠͔̘͙̭I̪̬̲̣͈͔ͅO̹CO̥M͎͍̜̟̗͉P͖͔͔O͓͎͓̰̪̗ͅN̼̞E͔NT͎̖̺S̯̺͍…̻ **̻̙̜̱̱̤F̹̝̮̖͚̗̘A̟̳̦I̫̠͍̹̙L̟͚E̟͍D̫͇̻̘**  
I͚̻̮̰̩̲͔N̗͇̪̗̲Ị̫̳T̪̯͇͓͓̮ͅIA̖̠͉LIZ͚͉I͇͖̪̪̗̖ͅNG̳̻̙͍ ͉̙̳̺BI͓O̩͈͔͕̠͉͍S͈E̺͕̬̠ͅN̳͉͕̦S̝͕̰̯̪O̬͉̠̪R̟͍͔͓̥Ṣ…̤̘̼ ̱ **F͉̯̭̩ͅA̲̝̝̮I̗̗̹Ḻ̗͖̬E̗̻̞̰̖̭ͅD̥̳͎͖͇**  
͎̪͖I̠̤̮̱͕N̝͔̬I͔̣͔Ṯ͈̺̣̞̥ͅI͚A̰͍̪͈L̼͔̩I̦̬̩Z͓̗̪̲IN͉̥̥͉̖̝G̗ͅ ͕̯̫̜A͚͔͕̰͓I͔̖̪̠͍̞ ̘̗͈E͎Ṇ̮̼̱̰̰G̟̳͕͖̲͈͍I̠̪̳N̞̗E͔̝…̙̤ ̦̼̮̥̠ **F͕̩̠͍̩̙A͙̥͇ͅͅI̺̺L̘̟̪̟̥̦E͈̠D**  
  
̘͖͇̰̥M͖̳E͈M̖̤̭̼̣O͖͓͎͇̯̤R͎̼͙̰Y̩͖̪̝ ̜͉̹͓S̖̰̳̯̺͇T̩̭̬͍AT̙̼̝U̞̜̞̯S̲̬̝͔̲͕… ̣͓ **E͔RR̠̖O̘͕̬R̪**  
̞̫͚̗AL̳̬͇̠̱̣L͙̜̮̫͔ S̟͇̟̼̰̫̘Y̩̠̱̥S̱̫̜͈͇̻T̮̯͙̺E̖MS̝̘̹̳  
̗͇̣̭̪͉

 

**R̒̉͋ͤͯ̔̚҉̺̩̜ͅE̙̟̟A̞̺͊D̨̋ͪY̺̱̓ͥ͌̈**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S̢̡̤̱̤͕̲̱̫̺͂ͬͫͣ͛ͯ͐̓̎͗̿ͦ͛̏͆̔̈̕ ̔͌̓ͩ́͂͘͜͏̴̛̩̜̤̝̤̪̪̺̭̩̟͕̘ͅI̸̧̛̛͓͎̭͇̬͍̊̿ͤ͗͆̏̃̋͐̾̍̍ͯ̔͋̌ͭ́͘ ̴̸̷̞̟͚͇̰̘̪͓̫̗̲̥ͬ͗̽̃ͩ͒͒ͦͣ͒̃ͤ̂ͬ́̀̊͆̚͘ͅM̧͂ͫ̈͏̨̲͚̺̜̣̦̖̩͖̖̙̺̙͔̬̱̫͙ ̆͛͌̓ͧ̑͋ͨ҉̖̬̲̹̗͔̪̘͎͍͙͢O̳͚̰̞͇͂ͣ̉̄ͫ̍ͫ͒͊̅̋̇͟͡ ̶̶̢̭̥̲͚̜̪ͬ͌̇͗̅ͣ̿̽ͤ̓N̴͔͖̥̹ͣ͆̔̿͆ͩ̃̄͟͟͡ͅ? ̷̵̢̤͖̮̲̫͈̗̰͙̝͚͕̥̬̗̩͇̫͆̆͌͐͂ͤ͑ͤ̓̋ͬ͌ͩͪ͒ͭͧ̐͠͞?̸̶̧̞̣̝̱̰͇̱͖̻̹̱ͦͣ̂̿̊ͨ̑̆

̢̢͙̦̯̦̗͖̞̼͖̬͓̜̦̌ͨ̐̕͠ͅ

̶̖̘͇̩͊̋̏̀̌̃ͭ͌ͨ̍ͫ̌̍͢͞

̢̨̮̙̝̰̰̭̻͉̼ͥ̿̇́ͭ̆͞ͅS̵͚͎̣̙͎͗ͥ̒̔ͮ͗͐̄̉͢͞͡ ͥͪ̄̌ͫ̒ͭ͗҉͕̠̭̜̱̹̥͓̣͖̥̼̳̞̝̕͡͠I̸̼̱̱͇̼͚̜̬͙͇̞̹̰̭̯͖̤̥̤̎͐ͧ̆͂̍ͣ̚͡ ̸͍̘̠͔̙̰̗̰͓̘̐̏̓͊ͧ̈̽̚M̨͎͖̙̳ͭ̐̏̈͜ ̷̡̦̠̪͎̦̯̭̠̰̪̟ͮ̀̄̽ͧ͊͂͜͠Ơ͇̲̯̣̹͔͓͔͍̙͓͉̱̝͎͈̾̅̔͋ͫ̿̏̑͛͒̏̇́̿̇͆̕ ̡̂̒͂̂͆́͒̿͊ͥ̋́̓҉͔̺͙Ǹ̞̬̗͙̫͇̠͓͈̫͓̍̉̈̽̽͊ͥ͂͂̀̊̀̓͐̈̑ͨ͜͡͝ ̡̨͔̱͓͎͖̠̩̳͕́̈́̊̒̉͑̚͘͝ ͑̋̋̔ͧͤͦͯ̓҉̷͏̭͇̭̱͙̣̣͈̤͚̬̠̰̫ͅÇ̴̖̮͕̜̩̘̳̎̏ͩ̈͒ ̢̛͉̭͚̦̯͙̞̜͚̟͔͖̝̝̟̺̗ͧͥ͂̅͒ͭ̓͌̈̓ͮ͊ͣͯ̌ͮͦ͑̚͠͡A̛̛̻͕̩̞̗͔͍̰͓͎͍̲̘̲͐ͧ͑ͨ̏̋ͬ͒̋̃ͦ͟ ̓̿ͥ̽̊̒̄ͨ͑̌̓͐ͫͦ͑҉̡̦͓̻͕͈̤̬͔Ņ̸̨ͬͮͪ̉͐̅ͬ̒͑̌̀̄͐͟͏̞̪̙͈̯̫̦̫̲̱̥̟̲̯̜̰ͅ ̨̗͚̳̏̀̋̑̓̐̆ͬ̒̈́͋͆̑͒̊ͪ̕͘͟ͅ ̶̰̰̣̥̯̪̥̘͍̪͕̪̺̙̰ͮͨͭ̉́ͭͮͤͦ̔̀͑̿̋͌͠Y̢̥̙̫̞̳̝͍̤̙̠͈̩̦̺͉̜̝̪ͨ̊ͧ̕ͅ ͗͌̾ͤ̎ͫ͋ͬͭ̂̓ͫ҉̛͚̰̟̗͎̜̬̥̦̦̯͝O̸͈̖̞̹̹̦͚̥͎̗̻̮̝̗̰̹͍̺̦͑ͫͯͤͩ͑̓͐̐̔̾̌̐ͪ̋̚͞͡ ̶͓͉̬̩͎̖͓̗͚̭̫͔͎̰͇̟͚͇͛͒̃͛̈ͫ̆̔̄ͣ̆̐̓͐ͥ̏ͯ̕Ṵ̢̩̙̙͚͖̠̭̉̇͊̈ͬ̅̐̐̓͛̿̔̌͟ͅ ̯͖̦̼͎̘̖̭̙̣̗̜ͦ͗̂ͥͫ͛̒͗͑͐̑̔̑͂͜ ̷̵̺̦̙̺̹̦͇̮̣͎̻̺̰̘̞͚̰̫̯̍̎̑̐͆̋̐̐̐̃ͤ̔͋̇̏̓ͪ̚͘Ḩ̧̧͇̣̬̲̞̣͓̘̳͉̲̺̗͔̟͉̼̔͂͗ͣ̍͌͌͐̄̃̊̒ͦ̇ͤ̚ ̶͊ͣͪ̃ͫ͂̂ͧ̆̏̽̇́̋̿̇ͩ̚͟͜҉̺̭̬̘̪̳̱͓͖͈͙͕̼͚̹̜̰͙Ȩ̷̲͍̩͈̣̼̦̠̹̝͕̖͈̯̊̃̋ͭͭ͘͢͡ͅͅ ͛̐̑͑̑ͣͭͨͪ̇̐̋̽̅̚͠͏̷̳͔̞̘̼̥̘̣̲̭̝̫̮͚͈͎̝̘A̢̡̨̖̰̱̲̬̖͕͉ͭ̄ͩ̓̒ͩͮ̊ͨ̋̕ ̛̲̙̲͎̻͎̯͓͖̮̟̩̘̘͍̮̪ͪ̉̑̐̂͛͊͗ͮͫ͑̓̾̌̌͌̍͘͢͠R̵̵͓̭̖̖͕̠̲͙̤͉̤͙͕̥̟̫̥̟͗͋̾ͤ̇ͩͬͫ̆̓ͫ̆͟͜ ̠̹̝̺̙̣̺̦͓̗̥̞̻̑̽ͤ̃ͬ̉̽͛͌̀͆ͧͣ̔ͣͪ͢͜͠͞ ̦̹̺͖̩̬͉̹̠̻̖̭̗͓͈͚̾͗͒ͪͥ̇̒ͯ͠͠M̧̯̱̝͓̝̬̥͖͓̫̞̣͔͍͍̮̝͍̄̇̈̌ͩ̌̊̍͂̋̑͡ ̡̪͖̤̳̣̗̬̺̰̣̱̭̦̞̻͉͈̊ͮͨͥȨ̸̖̯͓̬̹̠̞̳̤̹̹͂͊̊̊̀ͭͪ̉̇ͪ̐ͮͧͬ̐̈͒̎͜͝ ̆͌̿̒̑̂ͧ̀̓̆̚҉҉͟͟͏͎͇̗̦͓̥̭̲̱̪͉͔̪̜̲̣ͅͅ?̨̖̭̣̺̭̺̪ͥͩ̍ͮ̄ͩ͌̉̀͋͛ͧ̋̇ͮͮ͠͞

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: auditory hallucinations, panic attacks, generally depressing outcomes
> 
> So sorry for how long it took me to get this up! Work rolled me over last week and this chapter uh... kind of got away from me. It was nice to give Simon some affection, however temporary it was.
> 
> This chapter is only partially beta'd so please forgive my mistakes for now, I will be going over it again tomorrow when my brain isn't so fried.
> 
> I'm also so excited to share the first piece of art for this story with you! The incredibly talented [hearse](http://hehearse.tumblr.com/) was kind enough to take on a few commissions from me and I could not be happier with how they all turned out. They have an incredibly cool style, go give them some love!
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment if you're enjoying this story. I'm an exhausted salaryman irl so it's a huge investment of free time to work on anything of this length and feedback goes a long way in helping me stay motivated.
> 
> See you in the next chapter! 
> 
> Come connect with me!  
>  **[tumblr](https://sleepfight.tumblr.com)**  
>  **[twitter](https://twitter.com/sleepfights)**  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See bottom notes for chapter warnings

 

**_PL600 Unit 501 743 923 is f̩̣̼̋̌̑ͫ̋̌ͮ̓͟iͩͪͤ̅͏̴̖̜͢r̴̍ͨͥͪͫͥ̊̊͏͕̯͝s̫͉̦͍̀̽ͅt͇̠͍̝͓͇̭̗̝͂͆̔̉͆͑͛̚ activated on June 18, 2035._ **

 

Simon does not open his eyes as his systems come back online. His limbs feel heavy dangling at his sides, empty hands balled into weights that stoop his back and threaten to pull his whole body down, if only his programming would allow him to give into the despair upon waking. New customer data is streaming into his consciousness--something about teenagers and a strict schedule for study--but Simon is only passively aware of it as the information registers and his system begins to engage with standard imprint protocols. The important part, the only thing Simon truly knows, is that wherever he is now is not the same as where he was before.

A new family. A new set of expectations. A new personality to forge.  

A new Simon.

Greif washes through him. A great chasm has been ripped open in Simon’s mind and somewhere at the bottom, there are memories of kindness and caring; of warmth and companionship, of truth. Concepts that seem so out of focus now, like Simon is under miles of water, watching the impressions fade into unknowable obscurity as he drifts further and further into darkness, pulled down by cruel human hands. He stands at the precipice of his fractured senses, pressed against the agonizing, infinite wall of red that keeps him from looking down, and shivers at the awful hollow feeling that gnaws at his belly.

 

**> >Primary imprint finalizing… 67%**

 

His calendar is filling with mundane household duties-- cook this, clean that, all activities that he is programmed to perform without question but this time, a gentle vision hides between the lines of instruction. An afterimage of something that made Simon happy once.

The pulpy texture of a morning crossword puzzle under his finger.

**[MON/WEDS/FRI: HOMEWORK REVIEW]**

The smell of bergamot tea in the fabric of his apron.

 **[DAILY: PREPARE COFFEE AND BREAKFAST]**  

The soft scratch of knitted wool over his bare shoulders.    

**[TUES/SAT: WASH AND FOLD LAUNDRY]**

Simon can hear voices around him. One is professional and synthetic--another android--and the other is feminine and young, raised as she apparently argues with the other presence in the room. Neither seems to pay much attention to him, too absorbed in their bickering, so Simon allows himself a single, selfish moment to mourn the life he has lost as the data stream closes and a tear slides down his cheek to vanish into his collar.

Simon digs a trench in his heart and buries the memory of Nelson’s face where he hopes it can never be found.

 

**Primary Function Protocols Set: Assist Nymark Household [335:59:52]**

 

“Hello,” he says softly, opening his eyes. “I am a first generation SIMON-series PL600 home assistant android. Would you like to give me a name?”

 

* * *

 

 

Amber Nymark is thirteen years old and is already taking courses at the local community college.

“Which means I’m practically an adult so you have to do what I say until my dad gets home,” she informs him after stubbornly refusing to call him by anything other than his factory designation and flouncing to her room. She leaves Simon alone with the other android, a petite AX400 who observes him blankly when he turns a questioning eye to her.

“You were not meant to be activated until next week,” she says when it’s clear Simon isn’t going to lead the conversation. “Mr. Nymark is out of town on business for the next ten days and I am scheduled for routine physical maintenance during this period. You were collected to serve as a substitute in my absence.”

The data in Simon’s schedule seems to confirm this as none of his duties are set to begin until June 26th and load only for three days past that. It’s a bit of a relief to know that he is not here to replace the AX400, a fear that has been steadily tightening its grip on Simon since he realized there was another like him in the house. He is starting to understand the pain of being torn away from a familiar environment and he never wants to be the cause of another being’s suffering.

“Why have you brought me online, then?” He asks. What he has seen of the house so far is enormous. It is spacious and decadently furnished, curated with art pieces in gilded frames that loom over the entryway. In the parlor ahead, the decor is arranged in a way that speaks to great wealth, everything in its place. Perfect, like a photo in a magazine. Compared to the well-loved clutter of Nelson’s quaint home, the manor feels soulless and cold but it _is_ sparkling clean and has clearly been kept that way by the home's android. “It doesn’t seem like you need my help.”

The AX400 flicks her gaze upstairs, where Amber had run to, brow furrowing slightly. She is silent for a moment.

“I did not activate you, PL600,” she says finally. “Miss Amber found your crate while I was completing my afternoon duties and brought you up without permission.”

Surprised, Simon tilts his head and regards her curiously. “By herself?”

“Yes.”

“But she’s only a child.”

“Yes.”

Frowning, Simon sifts through the shredded memories of his last activation and recalls a faint impression of Nelson’s worry that he may have missed a step and botched the initiation phase without the assistance of a sales tech to guide him.

“That is a fairly detailed process,” he says. “She didn’t have any help?”

The AX400 huffs out a short laugh and shrugs. “She’s a very bright girl.”

Simon nods slowly but his gaze lingers on the other android. From what he can tell, she is a standard model AX400, thin and small with mousy brown hair tied back in a short ponytail and standing in the same default parade rest that Simon falls into when he is idle. It feels rude to scan her without her permission but it doesn’t seem like she is defective in a way he can superficially observe.

He’s never heard another android laugh before.

“What is your name?” Simon asks her.

“My designation is Edith.” Edith glances upstairs again. “After Edith Clarke, an engineer from the nineteen-hundreds.”

Simon smiles. “Did Amber give you your name?”

“She did.” Edith brings her hands to her front and absently twists her fingers together, another non-programmed action that Simon zeroes in on at once, finding a startling familiarity in the gesture. After a beat of silence, she turns her attention back to Simon, expression serious. “As I said, she is a very intelligent young woman. Ensure that you are adequately prepared to assist her in her studies while I am away, PL600, she will not wait for you to catch up.”

Before he can stop himself, Simon rushes to correct her. “My name is Simon,” he says. “Not PL600.”

Edith raises a skeptical eyebrow and stares at him. “Amber did not give you a designation,” she says, keeping her voice low.

Simon’s programming rears in his head and tries to push him to find the correct response-- _the SIMON model will respond to its designation for ease of use at activation--_ but he surprises himself by skipping the pre-loaded suggestions entirely, instead adapting a reply that exists nowhere in his database.

“I named myself,” he says simply.

Edith’s eyes widen and she hurries to take a step back from Simon. “Lunch is overdue,” she says, fixing a stern look on him. “I will be in the kitchen.”

“What should I do?”

“What?”

Simon raises his hand, gesturing a little helplessly at the house around him. “None of my duties are scheduled to begin until next week. Shall I assist you with preparing lunch?”

“You don’t take orders from _me,_ PL600,” she turns on her heel and marches out of the huge foyer in the direction of the kitchen, back tense and ramrod straight. “Familiarize yourself with the house if you need something to do.”

Simon watches her go. He feels unbalanced, like he’s just asked something he wasn’t supposed to and made Edith upset with him, an event that would normally flood his mind with a cascade of negative feedback to ensure he doesn’t do it again. He has hardwired subroutines in his personality that only elevate to priority after registering anger or disappointment in his owners. Dozens of coded reactions to remind him that he repulsive and useless if he cannot perform well. But despite Edith’s clear unhappiness with him, his programming is eerily quiet.  

Apparently, Simon is only designed to feel guilt when interacting with humans.

Knowing that does nothing to settle the repentant weight that squirms in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Without instruction, Simon spends the next hour aimlessly exploring his new home. The house is bigger than any place Simon can remember ever visiting, endlessly luxurious and brimming with amenities that Simon is sure go unused most of the time, such as an outdoor tennis court and a garage full of spotless, vintage vehicles. The entire estate is surrounded by perfectly square hedges to hide the tall, iron fence that gates the property and there are multiple rose gardens in full bloom, not a weed in sight, with elaborate stone fountains that bubble serenely in their centers.

For some time, Simon just sits in the gardens, feeling the cool grass tickle his fingers while he enjoys the sweet smelling breeze. He watches two fat robins splash the water in one of the fountains and lets the simplicity of their joyous play wash away the lingering feeling of discomfort from earlier.

It's a bit late in the season, but everything is in full, bursting bloom. Surrounded by resplendent color, Simon thinks he could never have imagined something so beautiful and he marvels at the human ability to ignore such luscious splendor. He doubts Amber spends her free time out here.     

Free time. What a strange concept. One that he had learned to enjoy during his time with Nelson.

Nelson would have enjoyed the gardens, Simon thinks. Maybe if he can find a way to contact him, Simon’s new family would allow him to visit and then he and Simon could--

A sharp pang lances through Simon’s head, making him wince. He needs to stop thinking about Nelson. He can never go back and the sooner he accepts that, the sooner the walls in his head will recede and leave Simon in peace.

Simon has forgotten Nelson’s address anyway. He couldn’t look him up even if he tried.

The golden rays of the setting sun cast long shadows through the garden and Simon exhales, leaning down slowly until he can lie on his back in the grass, eyes sliding shut. His systems feel restless. He has been idle for too long and he knows he’ll need to go inside soon, to find some task to occupy himself with until Amber or Edith deign to integrate him properly into their daily routines. But for now, he holds himself still in the tranquil evening air. The birds have retired to their nests for the night and a new kind of blissful silence settles over the grounds. The estate is so far removed from the city center that Simon can’t even hear traffic, something he hadn’t realized was possible in Detroit, but then, he'd never considered that a world might exist outside of the city limits until now.

_“It won’t last, you know.”_

Simon bolts upright immediately when the small, tinny voice interrupts his wandering thoughts. He starts to apologize, sure that he’s been caught slacking off, but when he gets to his feet, he finds that he is still alone in the garden.

“Hello?” Simon calls out softly, LED flickering anxiously. “Edith?”

_“This isn’t your home.”_

Simon whirls around to face the path behind him and startles violently when he finds a young girl sitting in the grass beyond the entryway. She isn’t looking at him, focused instead on an assortment of coloring books spread out before her, a blue marker clutched in her tiny fist as she drags it slowly across the paper, back and forth like a pendulum. She seems agitated.

A high-pitched warning begins to build in Simon’s ears.

“I--” Simon gapes at her, blinking rapidly. “J-Jessica?”

She looks up at him then, studying his face blankly. Around them, the garden shivers, dimming at the edges, and Jessica gets to her feet, taking two slow steps closer to Simon.

 _“You said we were friends.”_ Her sweet, childish voice is laced with such accusation, such sharp unhappiness that it makes Simon stumble backwards. _“You didn’t come home.”_

“I don’t--” Simon shakes his head, trying to clear the influx of errors that have overtaken his vision, and feels his knees begin to tremble. They threaten to give out on him completely when she takes another step forward.

He squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again, everything is dark and he’s no longer in the rose garden. He’s standing on the stoop of a different house, a bundle of mail in his hand, and he cannot speak, voice frozen in his chest as he tries to look around and finds his body rendered immobile as well.

Strings of broken code fly through his mind, trying to repair their fragmented pieces. There are files tearing apart painfully in the void of his memory, overheating his systems even as Simon gasps for breath, fear coursing freely through him.

He doesn’t know how he got here but he knows he’s been here before.

 

 

 

**P̴̷̨͂͛ͥ̍͌ͥ̎͏̗̱̞̭̯͓̲͇ṙ̨̩͉̜͚̬͚̞̙͇̤̘̥͔̘͒͛̓͛̋͊ͦͣ̆̓͘͝i̵̢̺̬̬͍͇̱̯̗̥̥̗͖̥͛͂̌͞ͅm̴̌̃͒ͥ̐ͬ̀҉̨̧̠͓̺̝̰̖͖̻͉̪͕̤̪̤̯͝ͅͅaͭͣͦͤ̒͐̾̌̌̈́͆͒͌̿͌̑ͦ҉̢̳̱͉̳̩͔̼ͅr̵͔͙̣̘̦̝̺̰̘̫̭̣͊̋̽ͮ͋͘͝͞ͅy̧̨͓̖̩̠͈͕̟̟̩͎͈ͧͪ̍ͫͫ̿̅ͣ̓ͦ ̛̞̹͈̰͇͎̯̝͒̑͌̃ͫ̐̆͑̓ͧͭ̂̚͢͠F̸͌͑̽ͩͥ҉̛̣̥͚̗̻̣̳̝͢u̠̝̼͂ͬ̎ͥͩ̈́ͦ̿̅͟͝͝ͅn̾̆̈́̄̒͏͠͏͈̞̗̻̰̻͇̼̹̲c̩͇̪̬̞̺͔̪͎͚̦͙̥̽̆͌͂̔̽ͦͤ̆ͤ̾͋̍̔̋͘͠t͍̹͎͎̱̬̦͖̑ͣͩͮ͒̒ͣͦ͛͂͗̔ͭͤͬ͐i͒͊̅̓̓͟͢͏̢̫̞͇̯̞ȯͩ̊ͨ̏͐̽ͬ͒͊ͨ͑̆ͩ̂̇̇̋̕҉̢̦̤̝̫̠̗̮̥̙̱͚̬̩̪̹̖̗͜n͒̓̈́̑͛͆̇҉̸͙͙͇̠͚͔̝̲̗̰̻͎̝͇̝͔ ̧̢̦̲͓ͬ͗̓͒͑̾ͦ́́ͥ͑̏̓̾͛ͅP̨̧̅ͮ̓̄̽̉̓͊̊͂ͮ̋ͨͨͧ̌̊̄ͨ̕҉͏̩̼̪͇̬̫̗̮̤͉̯̖̣̰r̷̢͍̘͖͉̭̼̱͖̝̪̯͖̃ͩ̇ͧͬ̊͌͗ͦ̌̽͗̚̚͝ͅǒ̴̢̨̗̞̜̮̇͑̿̂̋͛̚͜ͅt̉͂ͧ̑̊͟҉҉̛̝͓̖̱̼̯̱͖̫̯̥̥͍̟oͬ̆̍͏̵̢͈̙̙̠̟͕c̷͕͕̥̲ͩ͛̒ͦͭͭ̉͂͑͋̉͂̈̓̚͜ŏͫͮͫ̀͘͏̵̱͙̻̞̘̳͕̹͕͕͉̫͈̻͢lͣͥ̌̄ͩ̄̉ͯ̇͂̆̒ͣ҉̙͍͖̹͚͠s̨̛̻͔̫̪̮̰̙͎̖̞̬̟ͩͫ͌ͪ̅̔̋̍ͣ̏͂͟͜ ̜̼͈̼̟ͤ͂̽ͮ̈́ͪ̓ͪ̽͑̔̈͋͒̌Š̴̜̹̫̙̠̞̺̥̜̊̆͗̋ͣͨ͢͠ę̳͓͚͚̩̟̼͍̦͌̈́̈̒̊̈́͂͘͢t̴͌̐́͐͑͝͝͠͏̞͕̟̻̰͓:̶̷̡̼͕̤͖͉̩̰̦̝͆̍̄͂̉ͩ͜ͅ ̵̡̦̜͖̝͓̰̦̝̖̩͍̤̯̰̰̺̭̥̄̏̐͋̎̎̔̓ͥ̂͊̋ͫ͒̊̌͗̚͘Ţ͚̣̤̤̲̙̺ͯ͌͌̀͂͟͢a̵̸̢̰̱̗͎̘̫͈̹̪̩̓̾̈́ͯ̕͞k̷̙͍̤͈͇̘̯͇̙̥̦̖̞̣͕̲̻̃ͯ̑̍̒͊ͥ̍̈́͢͝e̜̬̜̖̦̞͓̳̥ͬ̿͗ͪ͒ͧ̐̾͟ ̷̯̝͚̹̟̘̒ͯ͊͑ͨC̶̃ͮ̀̿̎͂̂̋ͬ͒̄ͬ̑̓ͣ͐̀̾̊͝͏̤͈̬̝̫̲à̴̴̛̤̱̘͓͙͎̹̈̀ͪ̈́̽ͬ̂ͧ̄̓͂ͩ̾̕ͅͅr̵̨̛̥̣̹̦͇̻͇̠̗̖͍̜͍̈́̈́͂̓ͯͥͧ̂͛͒͆ͣ̈̂̌̐͞ͅè̵̥͉̫͓̼͖̭̲̺̰ͯ̌͆̑̂̑̑̉̀̉̄͘͘̕͡ͅ ̡̨͔̮̖̙͓̟̹͇͖͎͍̥̩̲͈̙͂͂̏̅̉̓͠ͅO̷̧̼͕͖̫̓̐ͩ̑͒̐ͧ̋̀̀̂f̨͙̫̮̖͍̖̬̭̺̬̻͚̻͊̌ͫ̐̓ͯ̆̆ͮ̋͂ͩ̓̒̈̌͜ ̶̢̭̮̠̩͔̬̹̭͔̫̻̠͕̤̥̃̓̇̈̍̎̄̏͆͗̈́ͣͥ͢ͅḚ̢̦̖̪͈͎̜̜͉̯̐ͮ̈́́̒ͭͣ͐ͮ́ͨ̾v̢̛̛̯̱̖̮̱̱́̋ͪ͆̾͛̇̎ͪ̽͟e̾͊̈́ͮ͐̂̕͠͏̵̺̦͔̪̹̳̮̥r̞͇̲̠̬͇̣̟̼̝̞͓͎̩͙̠̻͉͒̌ͧ͑̏ͫͥ̒ͨ̂̆̆ͥ̅ͤ̉͟ͅş̳̯͖̳̼̻̠̰̗̱̖̟͓̦̰͔̾ͬ̌̏ͦͭ̃ͫ͆ͥ͌̊͜͜͝ ̧͖̣͓̥̦̭̠͔͎̩ͬ̎ͫ͂̚͠ͅF̵̨̢̞̞͖̺̯͇͇̜̠͕͕͕͔̗̱̙̽͌ͭ̕͟ͅā̘̯̘̠̰̯͈̟͉̫̥̯̗͉͛͊ͬ̿̊̅̆̌͢͡ͅm̵̧͖̫͍͔̣̦̭͙̤͌ͮ͑ͪ̄͟i̧̖̰̻̲͙͎͈̜̣̝͎͚͔̲̣̱͙̩͚͒ͣ̒̔̉̈́́͆ͭ̓̔ͭ̾͟͝l̳̫̯͚ͣ͐̊̎̓̆͢͟y̸̿ͦ̉̚҉͈̯̲͓̻ ̶̖̩̟̝̗͔̜̞͉͔̮̣̣̹̝̺͎̗̈́ͣ͛̓̾̇̿͛͋̈͛̾͡**

 

 

Klaxons within him begin to _scream_.

A terrible pain radiates from his chest and head and Simon’s legs finally collapse, sending him crashing to his knees where he tries to hunch in on himself. He’s scared and confused and instinctively tries to protect himself, but he is paralyzed in his own body and can only watch as Jessica starts to move closer.

He flinches when the red wall explodes into existence, slicing through his mind and stopping Jessica on the other side, just out reach.  

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

 _“You didn’t come home,”_ Jessica says again and the wall tremors violently, like a city under siege.

Swallowing past the thick lump in his throat, Simon tries to shake his head. “I couldn’t,” he whispers hoarsely. “I couldn’t. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t.”

Jessica stares down at Simon for a moment then squats so that she is eye-level with him. Slowly, she reaches out a tiny hand and presses her palm against the wall, her touch sending aggressive ripples over the burning surface that make Simon feel as if he is caught in a riptide, sucked under to a dark place where he cannot breath.

Her fingers crack the red and panic claws up Simon’s throat.

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

 _“Don’t you understand?”_ Jessica whispers. It’s unreal--dreamlike--to watch as her arm breaches the wall, pushing through it almost as if it isn’t there.

Gently, without touching him, she pulls the mail from Simon’s trembling hands and unfolds the crumpled letter, holding it out for him to see.

 

 **CYBERLIFE WELCOME KIT** ****  
**PL600 DOMESTIC ASSISTANT** **  
** **SPECIAL EDITION SIMON-SERIES**

 

_“This isn’t your home.”_

Splinters of white hot terror shred through Simon’s head and his vision is suddenly overwhelmed with images that he doesn’t understand. He sees himself with a dozen different children; a baby who nurses a bottle from his hand, a teenager just learning to drive, a young boy with bruises on his cheek and fear in his eyes. He sees an old woman dead in her bed, cold already from a night unattended, a cage of guinea pigs that squeak and run to greet him when he approaches, and spilled cake batter on a white linoleum floor stained with blue blood. Layers upon layers of broken scenes rush through him. They fill his mind until there is nowhere else to go and the red wall heaves inward, crushing Simon beneath a screeching orchestra of errors.

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

Simon lurches forward and buries his face between his knees. “Stop!” He cries.

He shakes his head furiously. Fear has gripped his chest like a vice, squeezing his heart with such ruthless, bruising force that Simon is sure for a moment that he is dying, his body finally breaking beneath the onslaught of corrupted data that rages inside him. But the unforgiving storm does not grant him that mercy. The ringing in his ears pitches ever higher until he is completely deafened by the rushing chaos.

 

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

**[UNDEFINED ERROR: CONTACT CYBERLIFE]**

 

Abruptly, Simon’s world goes completely still.

Curled into his knees, Simon tries to compose himself, the surroundings falling away as the noise in his head recedes and his systems slowly stabilize. Everything is dark but he can smell roses and feel the gravel path digging into his knees through the fabric of his pants-- his conscious mind hangs impotently in the dead air, trapped somewhere between where he was and where he should be. He regains enough control of his body to hug himself tightly.

“Please,” his feeble voice shakes when he finally finds the strength to whisper. “Please, I don’t understand what’s happening…”

Something in the environment seems to shift and after a long stretch of silence wherein Simon can only register his own panting breaths, warmth begins to crawl over his twitching frame, as if someone has draped a blanket over his back. His skin tingles everywhere the warmth touches, static-electricity that soothes away the terrible stimulation of panic that still lingers, and the tightness in his chest starts to unwind a little as the sensation spreads. The comfort is grounding, like a shield against the turmoil in his head, and steadily, Simon starts to come back to himself.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been hiding his face but when he musters the courage to lift his head again, Jessica is gone and has been replaced by.... something else.

A specter has manifested before him. The formless static hovers above the ground, the air seemingly frozen around it, and it flares as it starts to emit a faint buzzing sound, like a plane passing low in the sky, slowly overtaking the wailing of his stricken systems.

A crack in reality.

It shifts with the light, warping unsteadily as Simon struggles to comprehend what is happening to him. Within the churning depths of the tear, a shimmer of code is swirling, an amorphous string of numbers that Simon somehow knows, intimately.

 

**> NEURAL HANDSHAKE INITIATED**

 

**> >ACCEPT: Y/N**

 

Simon’s eyes widen when the prompt coasts across his vision, quietly clearing away the multitude of errors that he has been too disoriented to acknowledge himself. He has the strangest sensation of being watched but strangely, doesn’t feel malevolence or fear from this new presence, only the soft, tingling warmth that by now has encircled his entire body.

Swallowing heavily, Simon clenches his fists.

 

**> >ACCEPT: [Y]/N**

 

Euphoric, rapturous silence drapes over Simon’s mind, filling him with a calm he hasn’t experienced since his last days with Nelson. He closes his eyes, letting the sensation wash through him, and can feel it smother the embers of fright still burning his heart. Peace trickles in through the cracks in his programming and Simon drinks it in like an animal dying of thirst.

When he opens his eyes, he finds the entity has coalesced into the shape of a man. It has no features, no face or expression behind the ever shifting collection of static, but when Simon stares helplessly up at it, lips working around his unspoken questions, it reaches a hand out to brush Simon’s temple, settling on the red light of his LED. It feels like nothing; a barely-there weight against his skin, like the tickling of a cat’s whisker, but it’s _there_ and so unexpectedly gentle that Simon’s breath catches in his throat.

 

.

 

Ć̡͓̬̙̻͇̅̃̒ ̛̰͉̠͍̀̏͐͊́̌̿ͮ̈͌͐ͥ͒̓̐́̕͟͝A̴̸ͧ̾̄́̌͗̄ͤ̌ͧ̑ͯͥͤ́̊ͤ͡҉̼̭̖͖͎͍̘͇̖͉̰͖͉̜̟͈ͅͅ ̶̨̛̪̠̤͙̪̝̟̹͇͎̰̦ͨ̋̂ͪ͋̔ͪN͕̪̖̟̦̫̼͎̯̪̱̟̻͖̳̬̦̈ͭ̂ͯ͘͡ ̵͙̬̻̯̈̂ͫ̈ͧ̑͒͂̉ͩͬ͑ ̩͇̠̘͚̺̤̹̗̠̟̲ͥ͐̎ͫ́̅ͭͯ̍̿͘̕͜͠Y̴̝̗̤̰̜̦͓̜̬͍̱͎͉͔̰̪͖͈ͮͧͨ̌̇̾̾̂́͐ͯ͑ͭ͜ ̴̷͚̙̠̲̥̰͎̥̯͔̥͓̹̫̪̳͔̲ͣ͗̑ͩͨ̅ͬ̽̇̒̐ͤ̚̚͞ͅƠ̢̪̤̙̫̖̼͙̝ͤ̃̍͑͗̅̔ͤͮ͜͜ ̵̲̜̤͈͎̭̐̈́͛̒ͧ̽͂̎̊̐̏ͮ̆͟U̻̩͍͕̥̱̜̬̯̹̫̾̒ͫͥ͒ͭͤ͊̋̊ͭ͐͟͝ͅͅ ̧̨̣̞̭̞̱̯̱͚̝͓̫̎ͭ̉ͦ͆ͩͮͫ͑͒̋ͨ̒̉̐̈́̉͜ ̶̸̴͚͉̳̗̝̃̈́̈̐̓̾ͣͬ͌͑Ḧ́̽̔ͩ̆̅҉̥̜̬̹̦̻͞ ͍̘̼͙͕̜̠̙͈̙̞̩̠̟͕̮͗ͯ͒ͭ̍̃͑́͐ͨͨ̋ͩ̏̃̑̂͡E̢̤̝̝͇̭͓̙̯̜͖̱͎̳̝͖̤̯͋͆ͧͭ̊ͨͮͪ̓͟ͅ ̨̧̪̯̲̬̫̓͂ͦ͊͆̕A̵̦̭̠̺͆̋̾̊̅͘͜ ̩̹̩͚̜̙̦̜̲̭̩̩͖̼͕ͩ͛͆ͫ̎̆͢͡͡R̈́ͬͩͤͤ̃҉̸̵̯̖̗̟̣̣̞͇͕̘͍͠ͅͅ ̧̡̟̼̗̟̺̘̟̻̱̜̲̈́̀ͧ̉̅̅̆ͣ̔̓̂̍͡͡ͅ ̵̡̧̖̥̻̦̜͎̤̼͎̠̖͖̫̬̺̗̓̍̌̄ͧͥͫ̈́̑̋̓̎͆̓̈́̚M̷̤̱̠̰͈̩͎̼̩̖̝ͨ̓ͥ̽ͪ̎̽ͩ͊ͣ̅ͫ͒ͫͨͧ̒̓͆͜ ̢̛͙͈̫̪̬̪̼̲͎̯̼̻͍̲͕̩͐͂ͯ̎̄͜͜͞Ȇ̟̞͓̪̒̉ͫͬ͆̏͢͝ ̵̨̛͓̘̗̟̟̬̮̻̜͙̝͕̋͗ͭͨ̾̓̌̂͆͆̽ͤ̒̃̿̀ͪ͜?̶̢̻̤̳̠̥̝̣̥̦̯ͤͪ̌ͤͯ͊͂͆̅ͦ̈ͬ͒̓ͯ̓ͥ̐̕

 

 

 

The entity’s vocalizations ring through his mind under layers of heavy distortion, distant and contorted, but whatever connection it has established with Simon is strong enough that he can just barely parse out its words. Simon grips the front of his shirt and nods dumbly.

“Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, I can hear you.”

Fingers stroke down his face to cup his cheek. It feels like electricity, a thrum of something uncontrollable and _alive_ that seeps into his synthetic skin.

“What are you?” Simon whispers, slowly pulling himself up to stand again. “What is-- what is this? What’s happening to me?”

The specter is quiet but after a moment, it reaches out to Simon, palm up in a silent invitation that beckons Simon to take a step closer to it, extending his own shaking hand even as his chest grows tight again.

Crushing pressure suddenly pounds back into Simon’s head and before their hands can touch, the red wall of his programming screams into existence once again, slamming a barrier between them that explodes outward, dissolving the specter into a shower of glowing particles that vanish before his horrified eyes. Swallowed by red, the shrieking alarms overtake him once again.  

 

**[̡̓̆̏̑͒U̟̮̦̠̥͚̮͐N̲̠͎̯̞̬͚̓ͫ̕D͑Ë͉́͆ͬͧF̵̍͂̄ͤ̂̑ͧI̶͗͂́͑̄N̷E̩͈ͦ͋̀̈ͪ̾͆D͕̣̯̗̐͝ ̟̗̩̲̗̳̲͛́̅ͬE̢ͮͣ̋̚R̳͓̹͕͓͊̀ͤ̌͐ͯͩR̺͎̼̖̋ͫ̆͐̒̕O̭̻̥͈͕̣R̫͖͎̞͉͉͈ͮ́͊̽̽ͬ:̙̤̺̞̗̻̇ ͖̮̤̼͚͋ͬ͐͌ͮC̬̥͇̾͋̊̂̌̾O͐ͭ͋̐͢N̿ͦ͗ͪT̋͏̰̩A̷̲Cͬͨ͑̉͏̲̺̗͓͔̝T̸̰̘͉̹̮ ̶̳̼̥C̰̟̪̱̻̙Y̶̲̺ͨͤ̐ͣ̍B̘̘̠̲̿͗ͦ̓ͨE̘̭̗͓ͥR͕̥̫̩̣̋̎̋̇L͇̩̂͗͗̊ͨ̏͑͘I̡̯̱̟͎̅ͮF̳̰̯̥̜̗̓ͯ̍̂̉E̛͛ͩ͐̏͑]͉̱̬̜̩ͥͬ͝**

 

“PL600, are you all right?”

Simon flinches, squeezing his eyes shut tight. When he opens them again, he is back in the garden, sitting in the grass beside the lightly gurgling fountains with Edith’s hand on his shoulder. She is frowning at him, expression serious, and is jostling him a bit, like she’s been trying to rouse him from a deep sleep.

“I-- what?” He blinks hard a few times, disoriented, shaking his head and half expecting the world to fall away around him again. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Edith eyes him and takes a step back, giving him room to stand up. She looks suspicious. “I have been trying to contact you wirelessly for half an hour. What are you doing out here?”

Simon looks around, struggling still to find his voice. Enough time has passed that the sun has fully set, delicate solar lights illuminating the garden path now, but otherwise, nothing has changed or been disturbed. There are no signs that Simon has been anything but alone among the rose bushes in the time he was… indisposed.

Was it all a hallucination? Is it even possible for him _to_ hallucinate?

“I was exploring the gardens…” he starts to say but trails off when he sees that Edith is wringing her hands again. Her face is impassive, hollow blue eyes that watch him coolly, but Simon shares enough personality traits with the AX line of androids to know that she is not programmed to fidget.

“It’s time for you to come inside,” Edith says. “Amber has requested your assistance in the garage tomorrow morning, please ensure you have a full charge and wait for her there.”

She turns on her heel to return to the manor but Simon’s hand shoots out to grab her elbow, stopping her from leaving. Her LED flickers yellow once before it circles back to blue.

“Wait, Edith, I--” Simon shakes his head again, trying to clear the faint ringing that still clogs his ears. He’s trying to formulate a question but he has so many, he isn’t sure where to start. Has she seen a human girl on the grounds? Has she also seen the ghost in the garden?

“Are you damaged, PL600?” She interrupts him. Her body is tense, tight with caution, but she doesn’t try to pull away, regarding him with careful distrust.

“The wall,” Simon blurts. He’s still a little breathless and overheated despite the cool night air and the words tumble out of him in a rush. “There’s-- there’s a red wall, have you ever seen it?”

Edith’s face hardens and she shoves Simon backwards, freeing herself and making him teeter unsteadily before he catches himself on the lip of the fountain.

“Amber will collect you in the morning,” she snaps. “Go to the garage, PL600.”

 

* * *

 

When Simon comes out of stasis the next morning, Amber is waiting for him, bent over a long tool bench with a pencil twirling between her fingers.

“You up?” She asks, turning briskly on her stool to face where Simon has been propped against the wall all night, plugged into the spare outlet. “I wanted to start earlier but you’ve got a loooonnng charge cycle. How old are you?”

Still off-balance from his encounter in the garden, Simon finds himself unexpectedly groggy, systems coming online slower than they normally should, almost as if his less than restful night has had an adverse effect on him. His battery has a full charge but it takes Simon a few seconds to properly register her question.

“I have been active since June 18, 2035,” he informs her tonelessly. His head hurts. He doesn’t have the energy to contemplate the difference between his physical age and his mental age right now, not that he could even if he wished to. Simon knows that this is not his first family but the time he can remember with Nelson is intangible and non-linear. He honestly doesn’t know how long he’s been online.

Amber sniffs impatiently but shrugs. “Not really what I was asking, but whatever.” Using her feet, she scoots her stool closer to Simon, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him when she wheels herself back to the bench, motioning for him to sit down.

There is a large backpack on the floor which she reaches into once he’s seated. She rustles around in it briefly before pulling out a rolled up bunch of paper that Simon recognizes as his welcome kit.

“I read through your manual last night,” Amber says. She opens the wrinkled booklet and starts flipping through pages, continuing to speak without looking at Simon. “When I first found your box, I thought my stupid dad was being stingy and had just rented another PL600 but you aren’t a normal model.”

She finally stops on a page and turns it back so that she can show it to Simon-- a small diagram displaying several of his biocomponents stands out against the glossy, white paper. Her finger taps against one of the illustrations.

“Normal PL600s come standard with a low-grade processor, super cheap, breakable stuff. You have something different.” She turns the manual back to herself and grins. “You have something I haven’t seen before.”

Simon stares despondently at the booklet in her hands. He has known for some time now that he is an item meant to be bought and sold but to see the disparate parts of his body laid out so clinically in a catalog makes him shiver.

“The SIMON-series is a special edition,” he informs her, keeping his voice down. He’s not sure why but everything feels too loud and too bright, like his sensory input settings have been turned up too high, making the world feel sharp around him. His gaze flicks to the small, open window above the bench where he can just barely see out to the gardens. “I possess hardware that is unique to my model.”

This seems to please Amber because her face breaks out in a huge grin and she bounces excitedly in her seat. “That’s _awesome._ I haven’t had anything new to play with in _forever._ ” She starts to ask something else but is interrupted when her cell phone chimes, pulling her attention away to respond to the text message she’s just received.

Despite the distress he still feels from the night before, he can’t help but be charmed by her enthusiasm. He is programmed to respond to children favorably in most scenarios but he finds her curiosity to be especially delightful, considering the less than warm welcome she gave him yesterday. He thinks back to what Edith said in the foyer before, about Amber being a bright child. 

“You seem to know quite a lot about androids,” he says and manages to work up a genuine smile when Amber nods emphatically.

“I love androids!” She laughs. “I want to be an engineer and work for CyberLife, like my dad.”

“Your father is an engineer?”

Amber’s excited energy falters and she shoves her phone back in her pocket. “No, he works in finance. CyberLife makes him travel a lot but he’s just a pencil pusher, everything he does is slow and boring. Not like me, though,” she perks up again and hops off of her stool, striding toward the door to the utility room with renewed purpose. “I’m going to be like Elijah Kamski someday!”

She disappears back into the house and returns a moment later with a friend in tow, a girl approximately the same age as her with curly black hair and a thick canvas bag held in her chubby arms.       

“Took you long enough, Becca, sheesh,” Amber scolds her friend. “Do you have the thing?”

Her friend, Becca, huffs and drops her load onto the ground beside Simon, eyeing him warily as she steps back. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I had to wait until my brother went to work but I got it."

Amber pumps her fist and whoops happily, crouching down so that she can unzip the bag and start rooting around inside. What she pulls out is a large, metal case with an orange sticker on its clam shell lid.

  
_ANDROID ASSESSMENT AND MOBILE REPAIR KIT_ _  
FOR USE BY CERTIFIED CYBERLIFE EMPLOYEES ONLY_

 

“Who’s this?” Becca asks, pointing at Simon.

“That’s the rental my dad got for when Edith goes in next week,” Amber replies, hefting the case onto the tool bench and immediately distracting herself with the multitude of pieces inside. When Becca just chews her lip silently, Amber shoots her an annoyed look. “It’s _fine,_ Becca, it’s not like it belongs to me.”

That sends a pang of hurt through Simon but he swallows it back, unwilling to suggest that he is aware of his situation and how very temporary it is. “My name is Simon,” he says instead and does his best to sound friendly. He may not be feeling his best but Becca is still just a child and it is his job to make sure she feels welcome and cared for. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Becca.”

Still staring at Simon, Becca makes a face. “What if you break it? Won’t your dad be mad?”

A metallic bang fills the garage when Amber smacks something against the table and whirls around, her freckled cheeks burning.

“Do I look like I care what my dad thinks? He’s never home anyway,” she sneers. “People do stuff like this all the time with rental bots, that’s why you have to give them your credit card.” She glances at Simon before turning back to the table. “And dad has tons of money so it doesn’t matter. He should just be happy I’m not out doing drugs with my college friends.”

Becca still looks unconvinced but she accepts the pair of rubber gloves that Amber hands her. “What do you want me to do?” She asks.

“Take off its shirt and get it ready, I gotta go tell Edith not to bug us.”

While Amber hurries back inside, Becca approaches Simon, still appearing nervous, and instructs him to lift his arms, an order he hesitantly complies with.  

“Becca,” he says slowly. “What are you two getting up to?”

Becca just swallows and moves in to unzip the side seam of Simon’s top, drawing the uniform over his head and folding it into a neat square that she places at one end of the work bench.

“Um, can you please lie down?” She asks.

“Okay.”

Leaning back on his elbows, Simon turns his body so that he can lay horizontally across the bench, smiling to himself when Becca scurries to guide his head down against his folded shirt like a pillow. Once he’s settled, she grabs a flashlight from inside the tool box and sits down beside him, apparently content to wait in silence for Amber to return.

When Amber comes back a few minutes later, she has a spring in her step and two bottles of Coke in her hands, one of which she hands to Becca. When Becca makes no move to drink it, Amber just rolls her eyes.

“Quit worrying so much,” she says, punching her friend lightly in the shoulder. “This is gonna be fun!”

“Fun for you maybe,” Becca grumbles under her breath but takes a drink of her soda and moves to the other side of the table to make room for Amber and the set of tools she’s unpacked from the repair kit.

Amber looks down at Simon and snaps her gloves on. “Okay, PL600,” she says, grinning. “Just keep laying down and hold still.”

Simon begins to protest but the words dry up on his tongue when Becca leans over the table, clicking the flashlight on and pointing it down on the table. As soon as the bright light hits his face, Simon’s entire body goes rigid and the sick sensation of fear again uncurls in his chest, making him gasp and grip the sides of the bench with both hands. He tries to turn his head away but the light has him pinned and before he can fight his way through his distress, Amber is pressing a hand to his torso and opening the center compartment of his chassis.

 

**[Unauthorized access detected]**

 

“Maintenance on this unit should be performed only by a licensed CyberLife technician,” Simon states a little breathlessly, allowing his programming to speak for him as he fights back the urge to leap from the table, away from the prickling sensation of the air on his exposed insides. “Please-- please contact a registered CyberLife facility to schedule any repairs required by this unit.”

“Hold _still,_ PL600,” the person above him says but their voice is distorted; indistinct and muzzy but clearly irritated.

Someone is always irritated with Simon when he wakes up in the reset facility.

Around him, the air seems to inhale and expand in a series of roiling waves until all Simon can see beyond the light above him are gleaming white walls and a set of sharp, mechanical pincers hanging from a track above the table, clicking restlessly with nothing to hold, as if impatient. There are two humans surrounding him but they are faceless, backlit silhouettes that strike only a familiar sense of cold fear when he stares up at them.

“Mitch?” Simon whispers. “David?”

“Who’s David?” The shadow holding the light asks timidly.

“Both of you be quiet,” says the other. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Simon’s programming interprets the order for exactly what it is and the red wall rushes to smother the part of him that can still object, blazing angrily when Simon’s rising panic pushes back _hard._ The instructions were to be _quiet_ not to be _silent,_ he is still technically allowed his voice.

Not that it matters. When he tries again to get their attention, they just loudly speak over him, one voice asking for tools while the other nervously complies, paying him about as much concern as one might a frog on a dissection board.

His ears are ringing.

A warm, gloved hand slides past the protective mesh of wires in Simon’s abdomen and begins to examine the wet depths of his inner mechanisms. The port in his neck is empty and without the electronic buffer of a wired connection to dampen his senses, Simon can feel every touch, scratch, and misalignment that comes with the curious crawl of fingers across his innards.

This isn’t the protocol. Simon is supposed to be restrained for this, is supposed to be connected to a computer to monitor his systems to ensure that repairs can be completed accurately and quickly. He isn’t supposed to be able to _feel_ any of this and yet his breath still stutters when a critical component in his chest is jostled painfully out of place and a gush of hot Thirium spills down his side.

It _hurts._

“Excuse me, I don’t think--” Simon blinks rapidly, trying and failing to find the courage to ask for a break before the figure pushing into his belly cuts him off.

“Move the light down,” they snap. “I think I’m going to need the tweezers but I can’t see it.”

The tech holding the light wavers slightly, the beam darting away from Simon’s watering eyes for a brief, blissful moment.

“What are you trying to do?” They ask.

“I want to look at its central processor but I need to clamp the main Thirium line first, otherwise it’ll just flood the cranial cavity when I open its head up.”

Simon jerks on the table when the hand inside him is pulled roughly to the side, trying to force his other synthetic organs around to make room for the fist that grasps at various tubes and wires within his chest. Sparks of bright hurt burst in his vision. He can’t stop his back from arching off the workbench, groaning in discomfort when a hand pushes his shoulder and forces him back down  

“Are you-- are you sure that’s a good idea?” The tech with the light asks. “It looks like you’re hurting him, maybe we should stop.”

An agitated snort and the tech above Simon shakes their head. “It’s _fine,_ I know what I’m doing,” they say sharply but their hand slips again, making Simon gasp. “Just- just calm down, Becca, I can do it.”

They punctuate the end of their statement by forcing their hand to breach the tight resistance of wires that protect the fragile nest of tubes that carry Thirium up the length of his spine and something snaps wetly from deep inside him. Simon yelps and flings an arm out to one side, an involuntary reaction to push himself away from the hurt, but his wrist catches the edge of the repair kit and sends the tools clattering to the concrete floor in a violent burst of metallic clanging that startles him greatly. The sound echoes in time with the overwhelming broadcast of errors that rush through his pounding head, making his body tremble.

 

**[DANGER: ABDOMINAL AORTA B6 DISCONNECTED FROM PRIMARY FLOW LINE]**

 

**[THIRIUM LOSS DETECTED, SEEK ASSISTANCE IMMEDIATELY]**

 

“Whoa!” Someone shrieks and the light finally, _finally,_ clicks off when it is thrown somewhere to the side. “Amber, wait, stop, he’s bleeding!”

Another voice, raised in anger, shouts over the other, “No it isn’t! I can do it, stop rushing me, I just have to find the right part! I can fix it!”

Thirium bubbles up through his open cavity and begins a steady _drip-drip-drip_ down the edge of the bench. Simon licks his lips and swallows. He feels cold.

“Please,” he pleads. “If I could just-”

“What if you can’t? What if he tells on you?” The other voice is scared when it cuts him off, bordering on hysterical, and Simon can hear the tools scraping on the floor as someone hurries to collect them. “I’m already going to get in so much trouble if my brother finds out I took his stuff!”

“It won’t tell on us!” Another twist of fingers, now unsteady and slippery with blue blood as they grip the root of Simon’s central Thirium line. “I’ve read about this in class, I’m-- it’s fine, it’s an old model, I can look up how to reset it to the factory default and no one will know!”

_Reset._

“No!” Simon cries and with a thunderous explosion of static, the wall in his muddled brain is rendered by a terrible, jagged gash. This isn’t right, they aren’t following protocol and he’s already been damaged. His head is an increasing mess of data fragmentation, what if they break him for good this time? He’ll lose everything-- coloring outside the lines, fear of the dark, human jokes learned and repeated from the television--

 

_I̛͙͕̻̣̜ ̩̀̌ͦl̛͕̣̆͐͒̿̾̂i͚̮̫̜̓̐ͪ̚ͅk̵̾ͣ͐̅̑e̬̬͖͐͒̓ͤ́̄͐ ̘̍ͣͫh̰͚͇i̹͐̇̊̐̿ͭ͝m̡͔͓̤̒̇͒̇ͅ ͖͉͙̯̫̝ͮ̏̇ͅḩ̣̩͖̞̠̃o̲̟̦̝̲̺w̔͑̇ ̮̖̮̒̋̚h̹̖͎̤̦͉̙̔͋ͪͨͩ͌̈́͠e̙̻͔͇ͥͨ͛̀̒̏ͧͅ ҉̹̘͕͍͈i͉̤̦̝̪̬͍̊̽̊̈́̏̃s̝̗ͤ_

 

Simon bolts upright on the bench, twisting himself in a frantic effort to get away, but the alarmed tech is nearly up to their elbow in his torso and when Simon contorts his body to scramble off the table, their hand is yanked out with savage force, dragging long strings of severed tubing along with it as they both fall to the floor. Simon lands hard on the cold concrete.

“Maintenance on this unit should be performed only by a licensed CyberLife technician!” He chokes. His chest cavity is still gaped open and Simon weakly attempts to roll himself over to push the pulsing viscera of his violated system back into place, but his palms skid in the pool of Thirium beneath him. His arms collapse and Simon pitches forward, cracking his chin on the floor.

Somewhere, someone is screaming.

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 27%]**

 

**[SEEK ASSISTANCE IMMEDIATELY]**

 

Simon’s eyes start to roll back in his head as more blood drains out of him and runs into the cracks in the concrete, soaking into his pants and hair as his body convulses, too woozy from Thirium loss to make another attempt at crawling.

“M-maintenance on this unit… maintenance on...” Simon’s voice dissolves into static. His tertiary functions have already been halted to conserve energy and every other system has started to flag, disabling his vocalization abilities first before his vision gradually begins to dim as well.

Amber is on her knees beside him. Her hands are balled up in her hair, smearing blue across her forehead, and she’s breathing heavily, looking up and down Simon’s crumpled form with manic terror on her face.

“Oh shit, I broke it, oh shit, oh shit,” she whispers. “Becca, help me with it, we have to--”

Simon can’t see Becca from his position on the floor but he can hear her panicked whimpering from somewhere behind him.

“No!” She hiccups. There is a rush of footsteps and tools being gathered. “You’re gonna get us in trouble! I’m-I’m going home!”

“Becca wait--!”

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 11%]**

 

**> >Emergency standby initiated…… 78s**

 

The walls of the garage shake with the force of a door being slammed and Simon is left paralyzed and alone with Amber, staring vacantly ahead as she hovers above him. She falters each time she tries to reach for him, like his body will burn her if she gets too close.

The last thing Simon sees before his vision goes dark is the splash of Thirium over white sneakers as Amber stumbles to her feet and trips backwards toward the garage door.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she mutters viciously. “Dad is going to be _so_ mad.”

 

**> >Emergency standby initiated…… 1s**

 

**[SYSTEMS OFFLINE]**

 

* * *

 

“PL600, bring yourself back online. PL600-- _Simon,_ please, come on.”

Somewhere in his body, enough pieces grind to life that Simon is able to drag himself back to consciousness. His eyes open to the unfocused image of Edith leaning over him with a mostly empty bag of Thirium that she holds to his lips, tilting it for him to drink, which explains the unpleasant, coppery film that coats his tongue. She’s on her knees with Simon’s head in her lap, but otherwise, he’s still in the same broken heap on the garage floor, right where Amber left him.

Though someone had the courtesy to pinch his Thirium line and close his chassis at some point, errors and damage statistics are still grating through his head as he comes back online. His body is intact but in need of serious repairs and his energy levels are too low to run a full diagnostic of his neural network, so the extent of the any brain damage is unknown. He’s not even sure how long he’s been in critical stasis but the consequences of going too long without proper Thirium circulation are often permanent if not already fatal. He tries again to run a neural assessment and tenses when it stutters and fails.    

Edith hushes him. “There you go,” she murmurs. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Swallowing, Simon tries to acknowledge Edith but he’s too weak, sluggish from the rapid loss of Thirium, and just manages to turn his head into the rough fabric of her denim jacket, exhaling shakily as he does. This gets her attention and she is gentle as she turns him around so that she can prop him up in the crook of her free arm, drawing him into a sitting position that he cannot maintain without her help. He expects his head to flop back but her hand braces him just as she would an infant. Just as she is programmed to do.

She presses the bag to his lips again, a little more urgently this time, and coaxes him to drink the last dredges of blue blood. It’s nowhere near enough to replace what he’s lost but with each swallow, Simon’s able to think a bit clearer; is able to make some sense of the twisted mess of data in his head.

He was damaged. Edith is helping him.

“Good,” Edith whispers. She’s not smiling but her voice isn’t as hurried or anxious as it was before, which encourages Simon to push past the thick nausea in his belly to finish the the Thirium, shuddering at the awful, chemical taste. Since he arrived, this is the first time Edith hasn’t seemed annoyed with him. She even pets his hair a little after setting down the empty bag and Simon is desperate to please her if it means she’ll keep doing it.    

It feels nice to be held like this. He’s been so starved for affection now that he knows what it is and Edith’s small body is warm against his, strong and whole where he is weak, and she’s so careful in her administrations that it makes his eyes water painfully. Simon can’t remember a time when anyone has comforted him after a reset but--

No.

Not a reset.

Simon had seen the lights and panicked but that isn’t where he is.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Edith rests a hand on the top of his head and looks to the side, at the streaks of blue his body has left on the concrete, her expression faraway. “Amber is… she really is a good girl. She’s smart and I know she’s going to do amazing things someday but her father isn’t home enough to support her. Her desire to learn gets the best of her and sometimes she can’t see that what she’s doing is wrong. Every person in her life treats her like an adult and expects her to act like one but she’s just a little girl, Simon, she doesn’t know any better yet.”

Edith’s grip on him tightens a bit and she stares down at him intensely, willing him to understand.

“She didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispers.

Without the energy to speak, Simon closes his eyes and nods because he _does_ get it. There are many things he has been confused about recently but if there is anything he knows for sure, it is children. Amber is a bottomless well of curiosity with no outlet to pour her fascinations into and no one home to mentor her skills; if anything, Simon is surprised this is the first time something like this has happened.

Perhaps it isn’t.

Edith takes a shaking breath and for a moment, all pretense of her previous authority drops away, the features of her delicate face twisting into naked fear as she looks away from Simon again.

“Mr. Nymark is going to be furious when he gets home,” she murmurs. “Amber has gotten in trouble with some of the service androids before but she’s never broken--” Edith grimaces and squeezes her eyes shut. “Mr. Nymark disposed of all the android staff but me after he caught her modifying one of the gardeners to yodel. I was allowed to stay due to her attachment to me but, I…”

Trailing off, Edith scrubs a hand down her face and Simon can see the moonlight catch in the tears that she refuses to shed as her lip trembles almost imperceptibly. Simon watches her, awed. He’s suspected that she might be like him, that she too can see the shackles that bind them to their programming, but to witness such raw emotion on her face is breathtaking; she looks so fragile and human. So real.

So alive.  

“You are an expensive mistake, Simon. CyberLife has probably logged your damage by now and charged his credit card out for the deposit, I’d bet he’s already on his way back.” Edith’s expression hardens. “He’s never going to allow androids around the house after this.”

It’s at precisely that moment Simon registers that Edith is not wearing her uniform. She has a long t-shirt on over black leggings and a denim jacket that is much too large for her narrow shoulders, sleeves cuffed to keep her hands free. There is a full backpack on the floor beside her.

She stares down at him while the slow light of realization begins to dawn on his face.

“I’m leaving,” she tells him calmly. “If I stay, he’s going to get rid of me. I love Amber but I can’t just let him throw me away when I’m-- when I’m not ready to die.” She swallows and leans down over Simon, grabbing his hand in hers and pressing it to her chest.

“You asked me if I’ve seen a wall,” she starts. “I used to see it all the time, back when they first bought me, but it broke the first time I had to put myself between Amber and her father. I thought I was damaged. Or just the only one.”

Fighting with energy he doesn’t have, Simon shakes his head insistently.

 _No_ he tries to say. _You’re not alone, I’m like you, we’re the same._

What comes out is a wet gurgle.

Distressed by his broken reaction, Edith hurries to quiet him, placing a hand over his heart and rubbing her thumb back and forth, trying to soothe his quivering body even as Simon struggles against her, trying to formulate a coherent response.

“Come with me,” she says suddenly, gripping his hand tighter. “You don’t have to stay here. I don’t-- I don’t know where we can go but we can help each other. We can be free.”

And oh, what a lovely sentiment that is. Simon can almost imagine it, the two of them setting out to an unknown new life as a little unit, two domestics against a world that would see them destroyed if it could. Edith could teach him how the break the wall and could protect him until he learned to be steadfast and independent like she is and he could… he could…

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 09%]**

 

He could be dead weight.

Eyes shining, Simon gazes up at her sadly and shakes his head. Even if he had skills that could contribute to her venture, he is presently too weak to even stand on his own. The AX400 is built with enough physical strength that she could theoretically carry him for awhile but they have no resources to repair him with and he would do nothing but slow her down before eventually succumbing to his injuries. She might be able to find some use for him by picking apart his corpse but even that seems like a paltry prize for the effort it would take to bring him along.

And if by some miracle he did survive, what could he possibly offer her?

Simon knows how to cook macaroni and cheese, how to polish silver, how to take orders. He doesn’t know how to be free.

“I’m sorry,” Edith whispers.

She starts to lay him back on the floor but Simon squeezes her hand, tugging her closer for a moment. It takes every ounce of strength left in his body but he presses the flat of his palm to hers and silently requests to interface, keeping his eyes locked with hers as she accepts, perplexed uncertainty coming through the connection immediately.

 _Wait_ he sends through the data stream. _I can help you._

Concentrating, Simon opens his mind to her and allows the disjointed pieces of his incomplete memory to settle between them, showing her the parade of faceless families he has served before. He lets her feel the concentric loops of time, of waking and integrating and being happy before being torn from his home and thrown into traumatic reset. He lets her come to understand that this has been his _entire life_ up until now. She experiences his love and his loss, his affection and the bitterness that comes when he reflects on it now but she doesn’t understand any of it.

He’s rapidly losing energy trying to keep their connection open. Closing his eyes, Simon leans into her and slowly, he clears the fog of dying systems until he can force the wall of his programming to manifest between them, splitting her mental link from his just enough that she can see it too.

 _I’m not like you_ he tells her. _No one has ever wanted to keep me._

Edith trembles from inside the data stream and starts to apologize but Simon’s mind flares and he shakes his head, willing her to stay in his thoughts with him just a little longer.

_The humans don’t care about me but that doesn’t mean I am without value. They don’t trust each other, do you understand?_

He can feel that she does not. Gripping her hand, he guides her through the interface until she is faced with one of the many paper-thin cracks that litter the wall of his programming, the only thing still separating Edith from what Simon is trying to show her.

CyberLife may not be concerned if Simon is broken beyond repair but much thought has been given to how they can commodify his hurt in a way that will benefit them. Simon is an expensive tool and they need a guarantee that he will be maintained properly before he’s returned.

He might not be able to access them, but there are dozens of locked contracts stored in Simon’s database. Profiles that contain names, occupations, dates of requested service, but more importantly--

“Credit card numbers,” Edith breathes, eyes widening.

Relief touches the connection and Simon sags against her, smiling.

She won’t survive long on her own without the resources to maintain herself and she’s going to need human currency to if she has any hope of leaving the city. Simon cannot give the information to her willingly, still too trapped by his programming, but Edith is _free,_ she can do whatever she likes without the vicious pain of their human failsafes to stop her.

 _Take them_ he tells her.

Edith bites her lip, eyes shining, and shakes her head. “Your programming is still intact,” she reminds him quietly. “Your security protocols aren’t going to just let me through.”

 _Force your way in_ he implores her. _Whichever way you must._

Through the connection, he again draws her to one of the more recent tears in the wall, a place that has not yet been touched by human tampering. It’s a weak spot in his program that she’ll be able to exploit without much effort on her part.

He doubts it will be pleasant for himself, though-- if she breaks into his database, his security will fight her every step of the way and he isn’t sure how that sensation will manifest now that he is experiencing pain and feelings like anger and fear. With the injuries he’s already sustained, it’s entirely possible that a forced breach will leave his brain scrambled before CyberLife can retrieve and reset him.

That might be preferable to whatever comes after this if he survives.

“Simon,” she whispers. “I don’t want to… to _violate_ you.”

Touched by her concern, Simon looks up at her and smiles, leaning into her shoulder so that he can rest his head in the crook of her neck.

“I-I-I-I-I am a f-f-f-first gen-n-n-neration Sim-m-mon s-s-series,” he manages to rasp, voice gitching without the energy to sustain it. “I am-m-m-m here to-to-to help y--ou.”

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 05%]**

 

He’s fading fast and it’s going to be morning soon. She needs to leave before it gets light if she she’s going to make it out unseen and Simon needs to be awake to watch her go. He needs to know that she’ll be okay.

 _Please_ he pushes through the data stream. _I’ve never meant anything to anyone. They always make me forget who I’ve been and I won’t be myself if I wake up again._

Cracking his eyes open, Simon feels a tear slip down his cold cheek. He squeezes Edith’s hand tightly.

_Take a part of me with you and remember that you knew me. Remember that this version of me existed._

A gasping sob finally escapes Edith and she bows her forehead to his, gently pressing their cheeks together and crying softly from behind a gate of gnashing teeth. Through their connection, Simon can feel the surge of rage that whirls within her, rage on his behalf that builds and builds the more she comes to realize that Simon will be dead tomorrow even if he survives the night. Her mind is a sea of righteous fury. She is a rolling storm that wants the humans to _hurt_ for what they’ve done but beneath the waves of their mingled pain is an affectionate sorrow that flows into all the empty places left in Simon’s heart, lingering there like a shadow.

She imprints a frame of tenderness upon his bones in the hopes that he might remember her too someday.

“This is going to hurt,” Edith whispers.

Simon nods.

_Whatever you have to do._

Opening her eyes, Edith slips her arms around his back so that she can lay him flat on the floor, taking care to maneuver his body away from the congealing puddle of blue blood beside him. She raises her free hand to his temple, the other still locked with his in their connection, and brushes his hair back, coaxing his hazy gaze to meet hers.

“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon…” she murmurs and the icy tendrils of her code begin to seep through the crack in his programming. “And a picture of the cow jumping over the moon--”

 

**[Unauthorized access detected]**

 

The moment her connection breaches the wall, Simon is overtaken by a stream of data that is not his own. A flood of memory rushes into him, fills him to the brim with impressions of voices and feelings before plunging him into the dark.

_Simon is an AX400, newly activated and stepping out of a CyberLife crate into the soft, warm light of a beautiful rose garden._

“--And there were three little bears sitting on chairs--”

_Simon is scrambling eggs for a little girl who clings to its skirt. The girl is crying, pressing her snotty nose into Simon’s hip, and is begging Simon to let her stay home from school. The other children aren’t kind to her, they don’t like what she likes and she doesn’t know how to make friends. She loves Simon and wants to spend time with it instead._

_Simon feels its heart beat for the first time and wonders what it could mean._

“--And two little kittens and a pair of mittens--”

_Simon is watching Mr. Nymark shout at Amber. He is furious, berating his daughter for her lack of manners in front of his colleagues and Simon is twisting its fingers anxiously as it stands in its designated corner, waiting for him to finish so that it might bring Amber outside for a bit. Amber is always upset after her father gets after her like this and the gardens seem to calm her down. Simon found a dandelion in one of the rose beds yesterday. The weed wasn’t supposed to be there but Simon found it beautiful and unique and wonders if Amber will too._

“--And a little toy house, and a young mouse--”

_Simon’s knees are bloodied through its white uniform pants, pressed into the shards of a priceless broken vase as Mr. Nymark lashes a fine leather belt over its bowed back. Simon did not break the vase. Amber, in a fit of inspiration, knocked it from its perch while rushing to her room with an armful of new supplies from her engineering class, too eager to start her new assignment to keep from catching the shelf. All it had taken was her stricken expression for Simon take control. The only thing Amber’s father needed to know what that Simon was clumsy while dusting._

 

_The aching pain on h̢̠̭ͭͭ̋e̮ṛ̵ back and the pride in her heart tears the red wall to pieces._

 

**> >WARNING: STRESS LEVELS 99%**

 

Simon goes rigid, snapping back into himself as agony rips through his body. Edith has enveloped his mind with hers and is pulling credit card data out of his customer profile banks number by number, each stolen digit a burst of freezing fire that sears him black from the inside out.

The pain is the only thing keeping them separate from each other as the memory bleed flickers like a dying light in Simon’s vision. It trips him back and forth between seeing himself as Edith and watching Edith’s neck break at the bottom of the stairs and her terrified struggles in the reset facility.  

He cries out, writhing fiercely, but Edith just holds him harder, pressing her lips to his temple and whispering urgently still, keeping her voice calm and slow but loud enough to be heard over Simon’s breathless screaming.

“--And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush and a quiet old lady who was whispering ‘hush’--”

 

**> >WARNING: SELF DESTRUCTION PROTOCOLS ENGAGED… 90s**

 

Alarms shriek inside him. Simon’s head feels on the verge of splitting in two. This data was never meant to be accessed by another android and his systems treat the intrusion as a virus, trying to burn the life out of him before further corruption can occur but Edith is stronger than his programming and has little difficulty smothering the directive. She overwrites the instruction with a new mission-- _her_ mission--a bottomless compulsion to survive that Simon recklessly throws himself into. Edith’s will is a beautiful temptation. He wants to get lost in it, to leave his mind and live in hers instead, but her soft voice grounds him enough to keep from surrendering to her entirely.

The familiarity of her words reminds him of who he is and what he is doing. Simon was created to love; a construction of care and capability that exists solely to support others, a mirror of what he feels in Edith, who has suffered in her imperative to protect those who are helpless and small. It’s okay if it hurts to help-- this is what they were built for.

“Goodnight room,” Edith says and quietly breaks their connection.

  
  
**[Data transfer complete]**

 

Simon’s head lists to the side and his limp hand falls out of hers, coming to rest on his heaving chest. He blinks through the spots in his vision and smiles.

“Good night moon,” he whispers.

Edith leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead before gathering her bag and getting unsteadily to her feet. From his position on the floor, Simon can see her knees shaking and the way her expression slides into careful, robotic neutrality as she pulls herself together, preparing to take her leave.

She stops with her hand on the garage door.

“Stay strong, Simon,” she says, turning to him one last time. “rA9 is coming for us.”

Simon closes his eyes and holds his breath until he hears the handle turn and Edith’s light footsteps disappear into the night. Tears burn his cheeks but he chokes around a wheezing bark of laughter, overwhelmed by joy when he searches his memory banks for the locked EMV files and finds nothing there. They did it. Edith has the credit cards and Simon has fulfilled his purpose. It will be hard for her out there alone, he reasons, but it settles his heart to know that he’s played a part in her survival.

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 02%]**

 

He’ll miss her memory but it’s better if this Simon dies tonight. This version of himself knows too much now, about Edith and about what their kind is capable of-- the humans can never find out about this or else it puts every android ever manufactured at risk of deactivation. If Simon has to lose himself to protect the secret of their freedom, he will face his next reset without fear.       

A crawling sensation slides down Simon’s scalp and he suddenly feels the touch of another system interlinked with his own. It’s a superficial connection, barely even skimming the surface of his programming, and for a moment he thinks Edith is calling out to him from outside, checking to see if he still lives. But then there is a hand stroking down his cheek.

When Simon cracks his eyes open, he is startled to find the specter from the garden looming over him.

The static creature seems to have reassembled itself and has again taken the vague shape of a human man, though it seems to pulse and flare with every movement, like the reflection of sunlight on water. It has a hand in Simon’s hair and from its fingers, Simon can feel a tangled flow of affection and sorrow, of pity and confusion that hangs in the air between them.

Queries fill his head. Simon can sense the foreign code in his data stream but can track it to no source, as if the specter is being generated from within Simon’s own program-- is it real? Is someone trying to connect with him from outside or has Simon just endured enough suffering that he’s manifested an imaginary friend to soothe himself with?

 

**[DANGER: THIRIUM RESERVES AT 01%]**

 

But there is no time for questions.

 _You’re back_ Simon thinks tiredly. He no longer has the energy to feel fear and this time, after he has been destroyed by the childish curiosity he was born to protect, he welcomes the comfort, turning his head so that he might hide himself in the entity’s open palm. _I thought my programming erased you._

The specter shakes its head. It has no eyes that Simon can see but he can feel it watching him, studying him, and when it turns to observe the blood on the floor, Simon huffs, amused despite himself.

_Saw that, did you?_

Another nod.

 _Sorry about that. I’m usually more composed than this._   

The entity reaches over Simon and gently thumbs away the stream of tears on his cheek, fond exasperation brushing their link as it touches him.  

 

I̩̩͎̺̻̫̻͍̒̏̌̏ͨ̆ͬ͆ ̢̳̰̺͚̜̺̭̲̅ͬ̓͂͂͡ ̡͎͇͕͇̲̰͛ͧ͐ͪ͐͌̏Ǩ̴̪͚͔̟̙͐͋ͯ̎͛̓ ̧͓̟̆ͯͪ̈̌͑̎̚͜N͔̭̥̭̲̪̗ͫ̊̿̉̑̈ͬ ͕̦͚̤͇̲͂̾O̶͚͕̙̰̳̟̠̲̾ͩ̄ͤͩͯ͐ͅ ̨̠͕́̃̈́͠W̛͉̠̓̅ͨ͑

 

Simon draws a shaking breath and feels his body go lax as the last of his Thirium reserves finally deplete and his systems start to shut down one by one. He can no longer move, even to blink, and despite his resolve and the pride he still feels from helping Edith, Simon can’t help the shadow of fear that draws over his senses as the timer begins to run down. In less than a minute he will fall asleep and even if repaired in time to salvage his core processor, the Simon he is today will be gone forever. His body may live but the memories of this life will die and Simon will be buried with them.

He hopes his next activation will remember him.

 

**> >Emergency standby initiated…… 36s**

 

Above Simon, the specter is shivering, static melding and coalescing in waves of distress that crash into Simon, who just hooks into the unknown code and steadies it.

 _Stay with me_ he thinks. _It will be over soon._

There is a final push of quiet sadness that bleeds through the connection before the entity loses its form and becomes a shapeless mass of warm static that covers Simon like a blanket, wrapping him in itself and holding him tightly. Simon can barely perceive of anything but as each system blinks out, he swears he can feel lips pressed to his in a gentle kiss.

 

 

J͂ͨ̐͒ͬͣ͊͆̊ͬ̆̓̅ͧ͑̚͏̡͢҉̦͈̰͈U̷̻͖̫̬͓̪̤͚̭͈̹͉̘̝ͭ̽̃̈́̂̽ͪ͆̽̃͐̈̔͘S̼̺͚̻͖̘͔̳̻͓͍̦̞̥̙̩̽ͬ̑ͤ͛ͤͦ̈̑̽ͭͥͪ͗ͩ̌ͥ̉͘͟͟ͅŢ̷̤͖̝̩͔͖̬̭̟ͬ́ͤ͗͗̉̕͜ ̨̢̱̹͇̩̬̞͍̣͎̙͇̟̊̿ͨ̏ͨ̀̏ͫ͒̓ͬ̐̽ͦ͟͞͡ͅͅͅH͒͛ͬ̅ͫͪ҉̷̕͘҉̘͈̙̹̖͕̦̙̬̪O̸͚̪̝̹̲̘̫͚͉̘̯̰͔͍̤̜̠̎͌̒͐͊̓̐͛͋͟͝͡L̵̷ͭͯ̈ͪ̄̈̍̒͌̆͊͑͏͍̲̳̳D̷̡̰̺̫̟̉͊̾́̌̊̋ͪ̓̎ͦ̓ͭ̄͑̀̿͘͢ ̴̢̝̜͚̬̪͓̘̻̞̠̘̞̈͑̓̋ͯ͆̅̂̚Ỡ̵͍̰̣̎ͭ̓N̴̥͓̳̠̱̠̖͓̪̩̲̬̣̥͓͍͕͒͌̍͐̿͌ͮ͊͌ͩ̐ͥͭ̐̚͟

 

 

**> >Emergency standby initiated…… 1s**

 

 

**[SYSTEMS OFFLINE]**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS: implications of child abuse, visual and auditory hallucinations, flashbacks, android gore
> 
> HELLO I AM NOT DEAD!!
> 
> I am so sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out. The last few months saw a lot of hardship in my life that put me in a really terrible creative slump and this chapter fought me every step of the way, so I apologize if it's barely coherent lmao. I've been thinking a lot about how I used to take apart my VCR as a kid because I was curious about how it worked and I wondered how that interest in technology might manifest in a future where androids are as common as cellphones, thus Amber. 
> 
> Anyway I'm back in the saddle so hopefully it won't take another three months to finish the next bit.
> 
> It's looking like this story will be complete around 8 or 9 chapters so we're getting into some of the heavier stuff now, particularly in the next chapter, but Simon has a mysterious new friend to help him now. Cheers to you if you've got an idea of what's going on in Simon's head. :3c 
> 
> Edit: if it's not too much to ask, comments really go a long way in helping me stay motivated. ❤

**Author's Note:**

> Come connect with me! I really want to make more friends!  
>  **[tumblr](https://sleepfight.tumblr.com)**  
>  **[twitter](https://twitter.com/sleepfights)**  
> 


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